


Shelter

by ambreignstrain



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: AU, Angst, Bad coping mechanisms, Depression, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of HIV, Mox and Leakee are lost boys, Violence, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambreignstrain/pseuds/ambreignstrain
Summary: AU. Early 2009. When you're lost in a storm, sometimes it's not about finding your way. Sometimes it's just about finding shelter until it passes.Or: Jon Moxley's act of drunken vandalism introduces him to a man named Leakee, a man who, like Moxley, knows a thing or two about being lost.





	1. Downward Spirals

**Author's Note:**

> And we're back. Reposting this one, as I finally have new content for it.

**Shelter** **  
** **I. Downward Spirals**

Someday.

 _Fuck you_ o’clock.

Jon Moxley swims out of an alcohol-stupor hanging over a puke-rank toilet in a bathroom that’s so white-bright it feels like it’s going to melt his _teeth_.

The fluorescent light overhead is buzzing like the world’s angriest hornest’s nest, just _BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ, MOTHERFUCKER!  RISE AND SHINE_!

Mox’s stomach heaves again, this involuntary, helpless muscle spasm that brings up nothing but burning bile and saliva.  Makes him feel like he’s turning himself inside out.  Beads of sweat slide down the back of his neck.  In this bathroom’s icebox cold, it makes him shiver all over.

Another day, another hangover.

The puking passes like it always does, and eventually he manages to claw at the toilet’s handle until the goddamn thing flushes with a _bang_ that’s at the approximate decibel level of a fucking nuke going off.

Shaking and weak as a newborn fucking kitten, Mox slumps back against the splintered front of the sink cabinet, pulls his knees to his chest, lets his head fall back.

The room does this wobbly kind of tilt-a-whirl spin around him.

It’ll pass too - always does - so ain’t nothing for it but to close his eyes and enjoy the ride.

* * *

All things considered, he’s had better.

* * *

There’s a whole sheep’s worth of cotton wool packed where his brain should be, so even after the room stops its manic spin, even after he cracks his eyes back open and looks around, he doesn’t have a clue where the fuck he is.

Nothing new there.

Every morning - _‘S it morning?_ \- plays out like a game of _Clue_ , with Mox waking up in random places with nothing but patchy memories of the day before to help him figure out _who-what-when-where-_ and _-how_.

_Jon Moxley in a gutter with a bottle._

_Jon Moxley in some random’s bedroom with a condom dried on his dick._

_Jon Moxley in a bathroom with a Hulk Smash hangover beating up the inside of his head._

Today:

Same filthy fucking clothes - frayed jeans, ragged sweatshirt, ripped boots, battered coat - he’s been wearing for what feels like a fucking _week_ at this point.  Stringy hair in his eyes.  Mouth that tastes like something died in it.  Acid-burnt throat.  Stubble-itchy cheeks.  Backs of his hands stinging from what feels like a hundred little cuts, this angry red webwork of shallow lines that criss-cross their way across his fingers and down to the tops of his wrists.

 _Match last night_?

Dirt under his fingernails.

_Is that blood?_

Bathroom’s light’s sickly yellow, so it’s hard to tell.

And the bathroom doesn’t tell him shit.

Narrow box of a room.  He’s half-wedged between the sink cabinet and the tub, a dirty brown bath mat rumpled under him.  Ring of grime on the floor around the toilet.  Yellowing linoleum peeling up around the edge of the tub itself.  Some missing shower tiles in the shower.  No towels, even if he wanted to hazard a shower.

He doesn’t.

The cabinet feels splintery when he uses it to lever himself up to his feet.

Already, the hangover’s starting to loosen its vicegrip on his head, the thousand-piece brass band stomping over his brain reduced to a small drum line thump-thumping against its sides.

He braces both hands over the sink and waits for the vertigo to pass.  Dodges eye contact with the pale stranger in the mirror.  Focuses gritty eyes on the sink basin, which looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years, a layer of dirt and God only knows what else forming a black ring over the once-white porcelain.

Plastic bottle of aspirin on the edge, though, right by the cold water tap, and hey, that’s something.

Mox picks it up with a hand that’s shy of steady and fumbles for an embarrassingly long time with the fucking stupid fucking _moronic_ goddamn motherfucking childproof lid.  Those godfuckingdamn little triangles don’t want to line up, until they finally do.  Until they finally do, and the fucking lid pops off and suddenly the air’s filled with white pills flying every-which-fucking- _way_.

They plink down all over the cabinet and floor with sounds like raindrops on a hood - _plit-plit-plit_.

Hit the ground.

Roll away.

“Fuckyou,” Mox mutters, glaring.  “Fuckyou fuckers.”

He pours three or four of the remaining few out into his palm, pitches the bottle to the floor, flips it off for good measure.

 _Jon Moxley in the bathroom with the aspirin on the floor_.

The cold water that comes out of the tap looks a little brown, but Mox cups handful after handful of it into his mouth anyway - anything to chase this rancid fucking taste out of his mouth, anything to keep the aspirin from sticking in his throat.

Nothing worse than melting aspirin on a bile-burnt throat.

And since there’s nothing in this closed-in closet of a bathroom worth sticking around for, he shuffles over to the cheap-looking door and lets himself out.

* * *

Bland hallway.  Blank walls and carpet so worn there’s no fuzz left in a few places.

Closed-in and tight, dim.

Two closed doors to his left - one along the same wall as the bathroom, and the other at the end of the hall.

There’s light to his right, so like a moth, he goes toward it, the tomb of a hallway the gross-but-not-the-worst-he’d-ever-used bathroom already fading into background static.

He pulls to a bleary stop just inside a living room he’s never seen before in his life, an unfamiliar, sagging tan couch and worn-out loveseat flanking the walls to the right.  Coffee table overflowing with magazines, paper plates, coffee cups.  Empty pizza cartons, shoes, fast food wrappers all over the place.  Giant hundred-year-old TV in a cabinet straight ahead.  Much nicer flatscreen TV sitting on a stand on top of it.

Smells like a musty locker room and old garbage.

Bachelor pad if he ever saw one.

Cold as a fucking refrigerator in here - that wasn’t just his imagination - too, so he turtles his way down into his coat more, shoves his hands in his pockets.

Still not a speck of light shed on what he’d done yesterday.

_Jon Moxley in the apartment with no fucking idea._

Last thing he remembers with any clarity was the way his eyes’d watered after he’d drained that first shot of gut-rot cheap whiskey.  The way the bar tender’s eyebrows hitched when Mox’d said, “Keep ‘em fuckin’ comin.”  That was right after he’d gotten that phone call from-

_No._

_Fuck that_.

A throat clears to his left, and Mox’s heart skitters in his chest, lurching like it’s been lightning struck, and _Jesus Christ_ , who the fuck…

...is _that_?

Probably a kitchen off to the left, and standing in the doorway is just a solid wall of _dude._

Gotta weigh three hundred pounds, easy.  He’s tall - taller than Mox himself, probably, and that’s saying something.  Maybe his age.  Dark hair all ratty on his shoulders.  Goatee mostly buried by a few days’ stubble.  Narrowed dark _don’t-fuck-with-me_ eyes.  If not for the blue basketball shorts, socks and sandals, black hoodie he’s wearing, he’d have made a hell of an imposing bouncer, what with the stony glaring thing he’s doing.

Even hungover-stupid, Mox knows a challenge when he sees one.

Goddamn bull about to charge here.

Mox’s been in the ring with worse dudes, though, so he drops his chin and glowers right back.  “The fuck you lookin’ at, asshole?”

Dude just blinks at him.  “You tell me,” he gruffs.  “‘Cuz I don’t know.”

The back of Mox’s next tightens, heats.  “Piss off, fuck stick.  I’m outta here.”

“No,” the dude says.  He trundles his big ass into the living room and plants himself square between Mox and the door, arms crossed again.

Got this look on his face like every principal in every school Mox managed to piss off over the course of his not-so-illustrious school career.

Unimpressed, Mox slouches against the door casing to his right.  There are still a few sticks of gum in his pocket, so he grabs one out, unwraps it, shoves it in his mouth, chews it wetly.

The sharp, cool mint gets rid of the battery acid aftertaste in his mouth.

And still, the big dude there just fucking _watches_.

Mox heaves a sigh.  “You got a name, then?  Gonna tell me what I did got you so uptight?  Or you just gonna stand there starin’ at me all day?  Not that I blame you.  I’m such a work of art I should be hanging in a fucking museum, but-”

“Name’s Leakee,” the dude cuts him off.  “Roman Leakee.  And-”

“Lay-aw-key?” Mox butts in rudely.  “The fuck kinda name is _that?_ ”

Big dude’s whole face clouds over.  Mox can practically hear his teeth grinding.  “ _Leakee_.  It’s my name.  It’s Samoan.”

“Oh,” Mox says, snapping his gum.  Like it’s nothing.  Like his head’s not still throbbing like a rotten fucking tooth. “Well, Lay-ah-key, y’gonna tell me why y’look like someone pissed in your Wheaties?  Or you gonna stand there makin’ me guess?  ‘Cuz all I’m comin’ up with is Colonel Mustard in the Conservatory with his candlestick in his hand for all I know why I’m here.  I wander in here last night or somethin’?”

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Lay-ah-key shakes his head.  “You don’t remember.”

“No.”

“Your drunk ass broke into my hardware store and started trashing it.  Ring any bells?”

_Jon Moxley in the hardware store with a hammer._

Probably explains why his hands got all cut up.

Still a black hole where memories should be, though, so Mox shakes his head no.  Does it again to flick a greasy string of hair off his forehead.  “Sorry?  Or whatever.  I’m sure it was nothing personal.”

“Yeah, well, your ‘nothing personal’ is a problem for me, man,” Lay-ah-key says, all sharp and pissy.  Muscles in his jaw flex.  “Know how much it’s gonna cost me to fix that window?  Probably fifteen hundred bucks.  It was the big picture window.  That, and I can’t open my shop with all my stock laying around everywhere.”

“Well, it sounds like you got a lot on your hands,” Mox says, straightening.   A cigarette, more sleep, and a gallon of coffee are about his speed right now.  “I’ll, uh, just be gettin’ outta your way then.”

“No, you won’t.”

“No?”

“I realize you got more booze than blood in your system right now, bro, so I’m gonna make this clear: I haven’t called the cops yet.  Whether I do or don’t is gonna depend on you.”

Mox slumps back against the door casing, wary and suspicious, a pit forming in his stomach.  Sounds like this is heading  somewhere he really doesn’t wanna be right now.   _Godfuckingdammit._  “On me doin’ what, _bro_?”

He feels like baring his teeth.

Fucking hangover.

Lay-ah-key just looks at him, calm and steady.  “Either you cough up cash to pay for all the damage you did, or we’re gonna have to work something out.  Starting with you get your ass downstairs and help me clean up the mess.  And maybe you come in and work at the shop until you’ve worked off the cost of the window.  I got all kinds of stuff in the storeroom needs done.  No time to do it myself.  Or,” he shrugs, “I call the cops.  File a report.  Let my insurance company pick up the bill.”

“Fuck no!” Mox snaps.  He needs that like he needs another hole in the head.  probably use it as an excuse to try to keep Mox from wrestling for CZW again, the prick.  “No cops.”

“Okay then,” Leakee says mildly.  Yeah, this dude would make a hell of a bouncer.  “I looked in your wallet while you were passed out.  So I know your name is Jonathan Moxley.  And I also know you ain’t got a penny on you right now.  And just judging by how you smell - you homeless?”

Mox straightens again, outraged.  “Me?  What about _you_?”  He makes a show of looking around the disaster of an apartment.  “You livin’ in this filth - you a pig?  Jesus Christ.  I’ve seen dumpsters cleaner than this place.”

“We’re not talking about me, bro.”  Leakee turns and heads over to what Mox assumes is the way out of here, walking around a stack of empty pizza boxes to get there.  “Why don’t you go take a shower.  Use mine.  Last door in the hall.  Bathroom’s in the back corner.”

“Yeah,” Mox says, biting down on a thumbnail, “or.”

Leakee leans back against the door.  “Or?”

He’s not a bad-looking dude, Mox reasons.  Much as he’s getting sick of having to resort to this, it’s probably better than weeks of actually having to come in and work for this guy.  This disapproving principal.  A few hours and he could be on his way to bum drinks off of Sami and find a nice pair of tits to fall asleep on.

He’s done worse with worse-looking dudes.

‘Course, there’s always the more-than-likely chance that Leakee’s straight and he’ll shut Mox straight down, but given the state of the place here, maybe it’s been a while since he got laid.

Worth a shot, anyway.

“Or,” Mox drawls, chewing a thumbnail, “maybe I go take a shower, and after I’m done, you can do whatever you want with me for a few hours.  You know?  Wanna plow my ass, rough me up, fuck my face - whatever.  I don’t care.  Sky’s the limit.  Maybe do ‘em all.  You can have some extra time ‘cuz of what I owe you.  ‘Cuz I’m tellin’ ya, you’re gonna pay for the window anyway.  I’m broke.  And I’ll only half-ass help you.  But this?  You’ll get your money outta me this way.”

Thing is, he’s been rejected enough that he can spot it coming a mile away - the way the dudes recoil from him, immediately go ‘no homo’, try to get all macho alpha on him.

(Which is fucking hilarious.)

All Leakee really does is stand there against the door staring, wide-eyed and frozen.

That ain’t an outright rejection.

Mox casually rubs his dick through his jeans just to test the waters.

Leakee _looks_ , dark eyes following Mox’s hand for a good few seconds, his mouth dropping open a little.

But just as Mox becomes confident he’s got this in the bag, Leakee closes his mouth, clears his throat, lifts his gaze to settle back on Mox’s face.

“I’m straight,” he says firmly.  Like he’s trying to remind himself.  “Even if I wasn’t, your ass ain’t worth the money it’s gonna cost me to replace that window.”

“Okay, dickface, you wanna be that way, then forget I offered,” Mox says, wounded.  That was fucking rude.  “And not that you’re gonna get to _know_ , but my ass happens to be worth plenty.  But whatever.  Be a stick-in-the-mud.  Enjoy your pizza boxes and pornos.  And by the way, if you’re straight, then I’m the fuckin’ Pope.”

“Get your ass in the shower, Your Holiness,” Leakee snorts, pointing back to the narrow canyon of the hallway.  “Sooner we get this done, the better.  I really don’t want to have to call the cops, but if you’re gonna try to jerk me around here, then I guess I will.”

Mox makes no move to head off, though.  Something - some niggling question - finally pushes through the fog in his brain.  “Why didn’t you call the cops in the first place last night?  If I was trashing your store, why didn’t you just do it then?  Not that I’m ungrateful you didn’t, but why the hell didn’t you?”

“I just didn’t,” Leakee says, one shoulder jerking in a shrug.  “You got lucky.  You wanna keep stayin’ lucky, go shower.  I’ll get you something clean to wear.  You can wash your clothes while we’re working.”

“Fine,” Mox mutters.  Feels like there’s more to the story here, but Leakee’s all stony over there, and Mox is suddenly too fucking tired to keep pressing.

If he’s not gonna get sex right now, then a hot shower and a smoke’ll have to do.

So he turns around and slumps back down the claustrophobic stub of a hall.

Leakee’s square of a bedroom isn’t very big - just has enough room for a splintered dresser in the back corner, a bed shoved against the wall to the left, and two nightstands on either side of it.  The closet’s built into the right side, and one of its sliding doors is half off its track.

The bedroom’s just as big a disaster as the rest of the house, piles of clothes growing like weeds in the corners, what looks like a whole case of empty beer bottles covering both nightstands and kicked under the bed, the bedding itself a messy nest in the middle of the bed.  The room has the same unwashed smell the rest of the apartment had.

The bathroom’s in better shape than the other bathroom, but the garbage can is overflowing with empty shampoo and mouthwash bottles, more clothes on the floor, and the lone towel hanging on the rod smells pretty musty.

Tub doesn’t look like it’s been scrubbed in a while, Mox notices, but it’s a better option than the other one.

And it’s warm in here.

He peels his clothes off and lets them join the rest of the mess on the floor, trying not to to think about his skinny fucking frame by wondering how in _the_ hell this Leakee dude can even stand to live like this.

Wondering a lot of things:

How the fuck he got here.  Who the fuck this Leakee guy is.  What the fuck happened here last night.  Why the dude didn’t call the cops.

What happened _before_ all this?

(In and among the pulse-pounding and haze, there’s _something_ he’s not remembering.  He just needs the goddamn marching band in his head to stop drumming on his brain, and it’ll probably - hopefully - come to him.)

And under all that, there’s this itch to avenge his wounded ego - to see if he can lure that big jackass into the sack and get himself off the hook for all this “work” bullshit - bullshit he won’t come back for once he leaves here, _any_ way, despite what Leakee out there thinks.

Say this for today, he muses as he turns the shower on, at least it won’t be boring.

Another day, another _Clue_ game:

 _Jon Moxley in the apartment with possibilities_.

If nothing else, it’s something to get him through the day.

Right now, he’ll take anything he can get.


	2. Bridges

**II. Bridges  
** _Why you gotta burn gotta burn it all down_ **  
** _Not the better brother gotta burn it all down_ ****  
 _Chokin on the smoke from the fires you started_  
Chokin on the ash from the bridges you've burned  
-Puscifer, "The Arsonist"

Fifteen minutes later, scrubbed clean of who knows how many days' grime and feeling a lot less like something that's been dragged behind a car, Mox makes his way out of the disaster of a bedroom and wanders out into the disaster of a living room. The tee shirt isn't bad, but he's practically swimming in the shorts Leakee had left him; even with the drawstring pulled as tight as possible, the damn things are still trying to slide down his hips.

Which might actually work to his advantage, come to think of it.

Leakee's out doing his best impression of a potato on the couch, just sitting there staring blankly at the TV, a can of Coke's hanging out of one big paw. He looks over when Mox clears his throat, dark eyes trawling down Mox's lanky bod and back up again.

Mox decides it's a perfect time to stretch out, arms lifted above his head. When the shorts slide down lower, he doesn't stop them until they're just above his dick, a good inch or so of skin exposed between the bottom of the tee shirt and the waistband.

He smiles when he catches Leakee looking, a lazy curl of his mouth that stretches wider when Leakee abruptly plunks his Coke can down onto the disaster of a coffee table and gets to his feet. Soda fizzes out the top of the can and sloshes down onto the mess, but if Leakee notices - or cares - he doesn't show it.

"Grab your clothes," he grunts instead. "I'll show you where you can wash them. Then we're gonna go downstairs and get to work."

"After I eat," Mox says. Challenges. "And have a smoke." He shrugs when Leakee turns dark, unimpressed eyes on him. "What? I'm fucking starving."

"There's milk and cereal in the kitchen," Leakee tells him. "You'll have to wash yourself a bowl. I'll throw your clothes in the washer. And you better not smoke in my apartment."

"Wasn't planning on it," Mox says easily enough. He doesn't bother hitching the shorts up when he heads for the kitchen. If anything, he lets them droop lower, so just a little of his bare ass is exposed.

Flaunting himself.

He shouldn't be. He's got more self-respect than this, but with Leakee's earlier rejection still ringing in his ears and his hangover still churning merrily away, self-control is not a thing right now.

It's not so much that he's throwing himself at the guy, anyway; this is a _challenge_.

How much is gonna take to crack the asshole's self-control.

Hell, judging by the state of this hovel, dude probably ain't getting any action that doesn't involve his own hand and a lot of lotion.

Dollars to donuts there are probably come-filled tissues lying around the place.

The little kitchen is just as nasty as the rest of the place: dirty dishes overflowing both sides of the sink, the trash can at the back overflowing and two stuffed-full trash bags beside it, the floor's sticky, and there are empty cans and cardboard boxes all over the counters. Inside the fridge, there's a mostly-empty gallon of milk (which is only a day or two out of date), a lot of beer and soda, a half-empty ketchup bottle, and little else.

_Jesus_ , Mox thinks, faintly revolted, _how the fuck does somebody live like this_?

Even as a kid, even when he his mom was on one of her drug binges and fucking her way through half the city, his...

_...Mom_.

_Jon Moxley in the kitchen with a fucking realization._

It hits him hard, like a fucking semi-truck to the testicles, and nearly sucks the breath out of his lungs:

Yesterday, he'd woken up out of a boozy stupor with his fucking Tracfone screaming in his ear. And when he'd barked a half-drunk, "What?" into it, his aunt's cordless drill of a voice had assaulted his eardrums: " _Where the everloving_ fuck _are you, Jonathan? I've been trying to get hold of you since yesterday! Your mom ODed. She's in the hospital, you piece of shit. She hasn't woken_ up _, and I haven't been able to get hold of you!"_

There was more hysterical shouting, but Mox didn't hear a word.

It was like somebody had detonated a bomb in his head, taking thought and feeling and _everything_ with it.

And after his aunt had finished her tirade, Mox had dragged himself up off of whatever the fuck floor he'd passed out on, numb all over, and he'd stumbled around until he'd found half a bottle of vodka.

He didn't _care_ if his mom ODed, but drinking the rest of that vodka, _that_ he cared about.

That was more important than anything.

There's not much after that but a soupy black hole, and the feeling something else happened he's missing, but, fuck, it's plenty. It's fucking _plenty_.

"You just gonna stand there or are you gonna actually eat something?" a voice grumbles behind him, nearly startling him out of his skin.

He spins on his heel, hands up to defend himself, heart thumping in his ears. It doesn't slow, even when he recognizes Leakee. Big dude is leaning just inside the doorway, watching him. "Jesus _fuck_."

Leakee raises eyebrows at him. Not much in his eyes. "Well?"

"Like I wanna eat in this fucking pigsty," Mox snaps at him. He sweeps the disgusting mess in a gesture. "Probably catch fucking salmonella or e-coli just fucking walking in here. Jesus _Christ_ , how the fuck do you even live like this? What a fucking _dump_."

"None of your damn business," Leakee answers, but it's defensive. Almost embarrassed. "If you're not gonna eat, then let's go downstairs and start cleaning."

"I need a smoke first," Mox says, hitching the five-million-sizes-too-big shorts up over his ass. Suddenly he not in the mood for this challenge. "Where's my wallet? My cell phone?"

"I put your wallet on the washer," Leakke says. "Was no cell phone I saw. And you're welcome, by the way."

That's fucking great. Mox shakes damp hair out of his eyes and points impatiently toward the door. "Let's go, Tons of Fun. Get this shit over with. I got places to be."

Something shifts in the dark of Leakee's eyes like he really wants to say something, but all he does is nod and turn to lumber off toward the door.

Moxley follows him down a set of narrow stairs and outside into an alley that actually smells less ripe than the dank locker room of an apartment he'd just left. Fuck's sake, there's a dumpster right across the alley from the door. How fucking hard would it be to cart some of that mess up there downstairs?

He lights up his smoke, Mox does, and walks over to lean against the wall opposite Leakee's building. The big guy hovers near the door, watching like some silent guard dog.

What he does not do is say anything stupid about the cigarettes, like, 'Those'll kill you.' Doesn't even seem all that disapproving. Doesn't seem much of _anything_ \- just dull, scraggly, tired. The pocket of his wash-faded hoodie is ripped at the corner, a little big folding over. Some kind of dark stain on the hem of his shorts. One of the straps on the sandals frayed to the point it'll probably break soon.

_Jon Moxley in an alleyway with a fucking walking mystery_.

Hoping for some kind of rise or reaction out of the guy, Mox says, "Why didn't you call the cops? For real."

It does. Leakee folds his arms over his barrel of a chest. "Because you were bawling your head off by the time I stopped you. Like you were all tore up about something. I couldn't understand what you were saying, but I got the impression something happened. I don't know. Decided to take pity on you. God only knows why."

"Pity." Mox sneers the word, takes an angry drag on his smoke, blows it out. "I don't need anybody's fucking _pity_."

"You'd rather be in jail, then?"

Pity or jail?

At least there'd be regular food and a place to sleep in jail.

'Course, he'd have to grow eyes in the back of his head even more than he already has, and that'd probably be the end of his wrestling career. So that's a thing.

_Fuck_.

"That's what I thought," Leakee says. "Something happen yesterday? That why you ran off the rails?"

Mox takes a last drag off the smoke and flicks the butt to the ground, where he crushes it out harder than he probably needs to. "Yeah."

He doesn't elaborate, and Leakee doesn't ask.

* * *

He doesn't care.

He _doesn't_ care.

He _fucking doesn't care_.

He only ever kept minutes on that Tracfone for two reasons: one, in case a promoter needed to get in touch with him about a wrestling match; two, in case…

_In case_.

Because he'd known - he'd always known - it was just matter of time before the addiction-beast would catch his mom between its teeth, and wouldn't let go. She'd been sticking her head into its mouth for years, walking right on that edge, and Mox had sure-God known that it would get her.

She flat-out refused to give the shit up, no matter how many times Mox had tried to talk sense into her - or yelled at her - when he was a kid. He'd fucking _hated_ coming home to find her and some random scuzzoid getting high on the couch, jittery and giggly, the last of the money spent on drugs and not on _food_. He'd _hated_ having to stick his fingers in his ears and pretend he didn't hear her and some sleezebag getting friendly in her bedroom. He hated coming home to an empty apartment and knowing what she was out doing.

She wouldn't _stop_.

And it finally caught her, and Mox just fucking does not have it in himself to care.

_Oh, like you're one to be all high and mighty, Jonny-boy_ , some familiar, poisonous voice thinks at Mox, who stands surveying the wrecked interior of a stranger's hardware store. _You're a chip off the old motherfucking block. Mommy's little fuck-up_.

_Fuck off,_ he tells it, sourly.

It's not a huge store, but unlike the apartment upstairs, the areas that hadn't been destroyed are relentlessly, spotlessly clean. Organized, even. Bins of screws in different sizes are lined up neatly above a row of gleaming metal nuts and bolts, which are below neat lines of screwdrivers and wrenches in various sizes.

But on the other side, where glass has exploded on the floor, man, it looks like a hurricane has swept through: two shelves knocked over, the bins of pieces-parts vomited every which-way, shit askew on the walls.

And the window: a yawning open mouth full of jagged broken teeth. Boarded over from the outside.

"Fuck _me_ ," he mutters.

"Yeah," Leakee says, buffaloing his way over to grab a push broom and a trash can. "Yeah, you were goin' pretty hard. Lucky for you, you didn't break anything but the window. The shelves are fine. Everything just needs sorted out." He carries the dustbin and and broom back over. "Here. Start sweeping. I'll get the shelves put back up and get the bins rearranged."

They work quietly for a while, Mox moodily shoving bits of glass into a pile and dumping them into a trash can, and Leakee carefully setting the shelves back to rights. It makes Mox itchy, all this quiet (always does), but he doesn't have shit to say about shit right now, and he wouldn't talk to Leakee even if he fucking _did_.

There's something else he's not remembering - something after that fucking A-bomb of a phone call, something that is lost in the goddamn black hole with the memory of him actually wrecking this place.

Try as he might, it just doesn't...fucking... _come_.

When his cell phone rings from somewhere inside the store, it startles the shit out of both of them, the obnoxiously loud _ring-ring-ring_ going off like a goddamn gunshot. He and Leakee both abandon what they're doing to go dig under a pile of nails, Mox managing to wedge one under his thumbnail in the process.

He's still shaking out his hand as he hits the button to accept the call. "'Lo?"

" _Jon, Jesus_." His aunt again, with the shrill voice that just drills into his skull. " _I've been trying to get hold of you all morning! Where are you?_ "

Mox pushes to his feet, conscious of Leakee watching him. "Around. How is she?"

" _She made it_ ," his aunt says. Sounds just exahusted. " _She's awake - asking for you. She wants to talk to you. Apologize and I guess try to bury the hatchet between you._ "

"Too fucking bad," Mox says, toeing a piece of glass he missed. "I'm glad she's okay, but I got fucking _nothing_ to say her. I ain't about to get sucked into her shit again."

" _Jon_ -"

"No!" Mox flares. "She's gonna try to fucking guilt-trip me into taking care of her _like she always does_. She fucking overdosed. That's not my fucking problem. And I got nothing to fucking take care of her _with_ now, anyway. I'm fucking _done_. I gotta go. I got shit to do."

He hangs up without giving her a chance to answer, nearly pitching the phone into the wall before a breath of common sense - _I need that for work_ \- stops him.

Instead, he spins on his heel and plows his fist into the wall beside the busted picture window.

It's painted cinder block that doesn't give a fucking inch. Pain shockwaves all the way up his arm before settling in his wrist and hand, low and dull. "Motherfucking son of a motherfucking _bitch_!"

The _nerve_ of that bitch.

"Fuck." Mox cradles his aching hand to his chest. Blood's oozing from his first two knuckles where they split open, and there's a nasty stab to the throb going from below his middle knuckle to the wrist that might mean he fucking busted something.

But with the pain, there's a kind of clarity that slices through the angry chaos swirling in his head.

Leakee, somewhere behind, asks, "You break it?"

And Mox manages to answer, fairly calmly, "I don't know. Maybe."

"I'll get you some ice," the big man says. "Stay here."

Mox doesn't turn around. "Where the fuck would I go?"

There's no answer, of course, and Leakee trundles off somewhere, leaving Mox to turn and slide down the wall, phone dropped onto the floor beside him and his uninjured fingers massaging his temple. He is no doubt sitting on glass, but fucked if he cares about that, either.

Fuck _Clue._

Today is turning into a case of _Jon Moxley and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day._

Been way, _way_ too many days like that recently for his taste.

The fucking _nerve_.

A couple minutes later, Leakee returns with a blue hand towel that's chock-full of ice. Mox experimentally flexes his hand, then his wrist, and even though it hurts like a bitch, decides probably nothing's broken.

Maybe.

Not like he'd go to a fucking hospital, anyway.

He's aware, on some level, that he's being watched, Leakee standing somewhere nearby doing that dark-eyed watchdog thing again, but Leakee doesn't _say_ anything, and somehow that's even more fucking annoying than being stared at.

Mox, the ice pack set carefully on his hand, forces himself to look up. "What?"

Again, Leakee folds his arms over his barrel of a chest, shakes his hair out of his eyes, regards Mox for what feels like a month of fucking Sundays. Finally, he says, "It's none of my business, but if there's somewhere you need to be right now-"

"There isn't."

"You sure?" Leakee leans one hip against the shelf beside him. Still almost no goddamn expression on his face. "Overdose. Sounds pretty serious."

"That's my wonderful fucking bitch of a mother for you," Mox mutters, the acid words tumbling out before he can call them back. Sometimes his mouth is worse than a wild animal, the way it seems to just run however it wants. "You're right, Lay-ah-key. It's none of your fucking business. I don't care, anyway. Ain't my problem." He pushes out a smile that's as sharp as the busted glass, and about as real as a _Baywatch_ star's tits. "Don't you have work to do?"

The big man doesn't make a move to get back to it. "Seemed pretty upset last night over something that isn't your problem."

"Fuck you. You don't fucking know dick about me, so just shut the fuck up." Mox dumps the ice bag onto the floor and levers himself up. "Let's just get this shit done so I can leave. I got-"

"Shit to do," Leakee finishes for him. He rolls his eyes and turns away. "Suuuuure you do."

"I _do_ ," Mox insists, stung. _Fucker_.

"And I'm sure it's real important, too." Leakee huffs an unimpressed-sounding laugh, as he folds down to start sorting through a pile of hammers. "Whatever you say, man."

Mox's hand throbs in time with his head. "Fuck you."

_Fuckyou fucker - you don't know me. Fuckyou fucker - you don't know me._

_You don't know me_.

Leakee twists around to throw Mox a look over one heavy shoulder. "Well? You gonna stand around all day, or are you gonna get busy so you can get out of here and go do all your 'important shit'?"

Fuming, Mox swipes up the broom again. Silvery bright pain shoots through his wrist when he does it, drawing an involuntary pained grunt out of him.

He ignores _the hell_ out of those dark eyes on him.

He ignores them so fucking hard.

_Fuckyou fucker_.

Stubbornly, he keeps his head down and gets back to work sweeping.

_No Good, Very Bad Day,_ indeed.

_Fuck_.


	3. Nailed

**III.** **Nailed**

Sweeping up glass is one thing, but having to manually sort through a pile of ten different sizes of nails takes the grand prize in the _Oh, fuck this shit_ sweepstakes.

Gotta be _thousands_ of the pokey fuckers pushed into mound bigger than Mox's head. Looks like a porcupine fucked an anthill and gave birth to the mother of all fucked-up mutant babies.

Mox gives smug-ass Leakee a capital-L look. "The fuck 'm I supposed to sort all that shit out?"

Leakee brings one thick hand out from behind his back, and in it, he's got a wooden ruler - the kind Mox used to terrorize other kids with back in kindergarten. "Measure them. One inch goes in the one inch bin, inch-and-a-half goes in the inch-and-a-half bin, and so on."

"I have to measure them _all_?"

"Hey, at least you can sit down." Dark eyes flick down to Mox's swollen hand. "And you can do it one-handed. Just make sure you pay attention. There are a couple nails that are the same size, but different kinds. Make sure they match the picture on the bin."

He sounds like he's taking way too much pleasure in this, the fucker. "Bite my bag."

Said fucker just laughs, and Mox finds himself ass-planted on the cold tile, flicking nails into one the bins like a kid flicking boogers off of a finger. His hand throbs under the icepack. His stomach rumbles.

Leakee busies himself hanging things up on metal pegs.

"I'm fucking starving," Mox complains, chucking a two-inch nail into its bin.

"I told you could grab some cereal upstairs," Leakee shrugs.

"Like I was gonna eat in that fuckn' toxic wastedump of a kitchen," Mox retorts, sneering. "Fuck, dude. I feel like I'd get food poisoning just walking in there. It was fucking disgusting."

There's no answer. Leakee doesn't even stop what he's doing.

Clearly he doesn't give a shit if Mox starves to death right here on the floor.

Boredom creeps in fast, dragging hangover-tiredness along for the ride. This is fucking stupid. Added to the gnawing hunger and the loud argument his head and hand are having over which can hurt him worse, it all melts into a toxic sludge inside Mox's brain. It's all just _grumble-rumble, throb-pound, fuck this_ over and over again. Never mind trying to concentrate on actually measuring the pokey little bastard nails.

He's pretty sure he gets them all mixed up, and one-hundred percent positive he doesn't give a rat's ass.

At some point, Leakee lumbers off into the back of the store. Mox is maybe a quarter of the way through his fucked-up anthill and halfway to falling asleep, eyelids heavy and his good hand stupid-slow.

He climbs to his feet to shake off the cobwebs. Thinks about just walking the fuck out of here. Leaving everything. Not like there's anything worth a shit in his wallet - just some fucking lint and his Ohio driver's license. Easy enough to replace that now that he's got a passport. Probably should anyway, since Philly's gonna be his base of operations for a while.

Cops wouldn't have a fucking clue where to look for him, so - yeah.

_Fuck this shit_.

His phone's on the floor beside the nails. He swipes it up and makes his way over to the side door, his fingers punching in the one phone number he's bothered to commit to memory.

Sami Callahan picks up on the third ring, just as Mox heads into the alley. "Mox _?_ " Alert. Bright. He's been up and around a while.

"Yeah," Mox says, making a beeline for the street. "Yeah, it's me."

"Holy fuck, dude, where are you? Are you all right?"

He's good people, Sami. A small bulldog of a wrestler, he has the floor Mox finds himself most often crash-landing on these days. They usually travel together in Sami's little beater of a car, four or five of them crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in an effort to cut costs.

It's the car Mox needs now. "Yeah, fine," he says. "Need a ride, though."

"Where are you?" Sami asks again. "What the fuck happened to you last night? You had everybody freaked the fuck out."

Mox frowns at the slimy side of a dumpster as he passes by, tries not to breathe deep. Nothing comes mind. It's all lost in that black hole: _Jon Moxley in the alley with no fucking clue_.

"What do you mean?"

The other shoe doesn't so much as _drop_ as it falls on top of his fucking head like a cartoon anvil.

"You don't remember?" There's a rustling on the other end of the line like Sami's moving around. " _Fucked up as you were, guess that's not surprising. You showed up to the arena fucking out of your mind. I've never seen you like that. Zandig about blew a fucking gasket. You should probably call him._ "

Mox's gut twists so hard he wants to puke.

Does, nearly, reeling off to hunch over beside that reeking dumpster. His stomach churns and churns, bringing up a lot of saliva to his mouth. Bile burns his throat. He spits a couple times against the wall, revolted.

This can't be fucking happening.

"Mox?"

"Did he fire me?" Mox croaks at the side of the dumpster.

"I don't know, dude," Sami says. Tired, exasperated. Mox has been told he that effect on people. "I'd call Zandig ASAP if I were you, though. Like, fuckin' - just make something up. Anything. Are you okay where you are? I'm out running errands with Chrissy right now. Be a couple hours before we can come get you."

Figures.

"I'll just catch the bus, then," Mox says. Probably won't. Probably just end up walking, but Sami doesn't need to know that. "See you later."

He hangs up before Sami can even answer, straightens, looks around. It's a long alley, narrow and shady, quiet. Nobody around in either direction. It's got that sweet-rot smell going for it, old garbage wafting up thick and rank out of the mouths of big dumpsters.

His stomach settles back down despite the stench, but suddenly he doesn't know what he wants to do.

Stay or leave.

He's wearing clothes that barely fit him and borrowed flip-flops. No fucking idea where he is. The idea of walking a few miles miles with those obnoxious fucking things flapping at the bottoms of his feet has all the appeal of taking a chainsaw to the testicles.

Sami doesn't owe him shit, is the thing, so it's not like he can be mad that Sami is busy.

Shaking his head, he shuffles back over to the back door to Leakee's shop. Parks his ass on the concrete step. His hand throbs around the phone.

Unsteady fingers punch in John Zandig's cell phone number.

This first. Find out if he'll even be allowed back to wrestle for CZW.

Zandig answers after the second ring, gruff and irritable, impatient.

Mox identifies himself, and proceeds to do something he almost never does: apologize. He's a law unto himself in the ring - does whatever to whoever the fuck he wants. Nobody tells him shit. But the one thing he tries not to do is piss in the sandboxes he plays in. Piss off the guys who actually run those sandboxes. Guys like Zandig and Cody, they'll some shit slide, but once you fuck up or show any signs of flakiness, you might find them less willing to let you in to play, less willing to let you have free reign.

It'd be just Mox's luck on this abomination of a fucking day to have _this_ door slammed in his face.

But he's honest about what happened, doesn't try to spin some bullshit.

When he's done, Zandig clears his throat and says, without much inflection in his voice, "TOD's in six weeks. Come down and see what trouble you can get yourself into. Don't show up until then. Have your shit together. One more fuck-up like last night, you won't be welcome around."

And then he's gone, the call just cutting off like he'd slammed the door right in Mox's face.

"Well, fuck you, anyway," Mox mutters, tossing his phone down beside him.

Six fucking weeks.

CZW had scheduled a couple of dates between now and then, both of which Mox had planned to use as opportunities to call out a couple of annoying little fuckers for a fight.

So much for _that_.

_Don't show up until then_.

That leaves exactly dick on his calendar for the time being. He'll be busy later, right around the time Tournament of Death happens, but between now and then, about all he's got to do is stand around with his dick in his hand.

No trouble to cause, no money coming in.

"Fuck _me_ ," he mutters, pawing at his face.

His head just pounds and pounds.

* * *

He's a good five minutes into wishing he could crawl in a hole somewhere when the door opens behind him.

Leakee's deep voice rolls down at him. "You're not working."

"I had some business to take care of," Mox mutters. Doesn't look around.

He's half-expecting some variation of 'the longer you put it of, the longer it'll take,' but it never comes. "I microwaved a couple pizzas," Leakee says. "Got more aspirin, too, if you need it. It's inside."

At this point, Mox figures he'd probably eat his own arm if he had to, so he slumps along behind the big guy back into the shop. Finds there are, indeed, a couple of pizzas on plates by the counter, already cut up, neon white cheese and blood red sauce and a skim-coat of brown grease over them.

Mox slinks off back to his pile of nails with one of the plates, a bottle of water, the aspirin, and a grudging mutter of, "Thanks."

He's not a complete fucking heathen.

Leakee follows him over with his own plate and a bottle of coke, arranging himself cross-legged on the floor just like Mox.

The pizza tastes like greasy melted rubber on hard cardboard, but Mox can't actually remember the last time he actually ate anything, so he scarfs a couple pieces down anyway. He can feel the difference almost immediately, the carbs and fat and grease giving him a badly-needed boost of energy.

Aware, as he's eating, Leakee's watching him, but he doesn't make eye contact.

Doesn't want any questions.

Leakee doesn't ask one. "Thought you ran off."

"Told you, I had business to take care of," Mox says gruffly. He uses his good hand to open the water, and takes a long swig. "Phone calls."

"Mm."

"Hardware store, huh?" Mox asks abruptly, eyeing the neat shelves and spotless floor. Mostly to move the conversation away from himself. "You don't seem like a hardware store kinda guy."

"You don't even know me, man," Leakee says, all wary. "How do you know I'm not the one who opened this place?"

Mox takes another bite of heated cardboard, glances up. "I don't, but I'm pretty good at readin' people. You don't strike me as a tool guy. I don't know what you _do_ strike me as, but this-" he gestures at the store with his pizza "-doesn't fit you. 'S like you're wearin' someone else's clothes."

Leakee busies himself hoovering his own food for a minute, big bites and a crumpled paper towel to chase the grease out of his beard. But eventually, he says, "It was my uncle's place. I inherited it last year."

He says _inherit_ with enough heaviness Mox can hear the unspoken 'when he died' at the end. For once in his life, he decides not to push. "What were you doin' before that?"

"Playing football," Leakee says quietly.

"Yeah?" Mox sits up straighter, interest piqued. _That_ seems more like it. "Like pro, or…?"

That wary look again, and, "In Canada. CFL."

"Mm. Trying to get into the NFL?"

"Door was already closed there," Leakee says, shaking his head.

Sounds like he doesn't want to talk about it, but Mox this time presses anyway. "What happened?"

"None of your damn buisness," is the curt answer. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not? What'd you do? Or were you just not good enough, or what?"

"It just didn't work out," Leakee says. "It's none of your damn business, I said."

"Okay, okay," Mox says, shaking his head. "What position did you play?"

"Defensive tackle." Leakee sets his pizza down, wipes his hands on his shorts. "No more questions. Are you really a pro wrestler?"

_That_ was subtle. Mox nods anyway. "I wrestle all over the area for a lot of, y'know, local-type promotions. CZW, IPW - those kinds."

There's a beat of a pause, and, "Oh, so you're not like an _actual_ professional wrestler."

Mox bristles at that. "The fuck does _that_ mean?"

Leakee shrugs, hitches his arm up onto the shelf next to him. "You don't work for the WWE."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Mox asks, tossing his plate aside. "I learned how to wrestle just like those guys do. I can _do_ the same shit they can do. Just 'cuz I do it in front of less people doesn't mean I'm any less of a fucking _pro_. I'm one of the best you'll ever fucking _see_. And if you don't believe _that_ , sunshine, bring your porky ass down to the Arena in six weeks and watch what I fucking do in the Tournament of Death. Tell me I ain't a fucking professional _then_."

"Call me _porky_ again, _sunshine_ ," Leakee shoots back, "and I'mma punch your teeth down your throat. Believe _that_."

"Fuck off," Mox says. "All I'm saying is did you consider yourself to be a pro football player when you were playing in Canada? You did, right? 'Cuz you were doing the same shit as in the NFL. Well, I do the same shit as WWE guys do. _Better_. I'm a pro."

But Leakee, stubborn jackass, shakes his head again. "I was a football player. I wasn't a pro. Pros are what the NFL does. And what they do on TV wrestling." He bounces to his feet with surprising grace for his size, empty plate in one hand and the full Coke in the other. "I fed your ass and you got aspirin if I need it, _pro_ , so get your ass back to work. No more whining. You're worse than my nieces, and they're _two_."

"No wonder you never made it, then," Mox says nastily. "You got a shitty attitude. If you think you're a pro, you'll _be_ pro."

"I wasn't a pro," Leakee says, shaking his hair back off of his face. "Now I run a hardware store."

"You'd really rather be in here playing with your nuts and bolts instead of on the field?" Mox challenges.

Leakee drops his trash on the counter by the register, turns, glowers. "I'm _choosing_ to keep my uncle's legacy here intact. It's a family thing."

Sneering, Mox says, "Yeah, and you seem _so_ fucking happy about it, too. Have to be, right? Gotta be _totally_ happy and well-adjusted to live like you do, _right_? In that fucking pigsty upstairs? That's _totally_ somebody who's happy how their life is going."

Big dude stands there for a second looking like he's chewing gravel. Mox braces himself either to be hit or for the denial. "You don't know a damn thing about me, man," Leakee says. Denial, then. "It's none of your damn business, and unless you want me to get the cops over here, I suggest you shut your damn mouth and get those nails put away. I mean it."

"Ooh, big man with his big threats," Mox says. "What exactly are you gonna tell the cops, anyway? 'I'm washing his clothes and he's helping me put everything away. Arrest him.'" He throws his head back and laughs, hgh and cackling. "Dude, you should have just fucked me when you had the chance."

Leakee parks his ass on a stool behind the register. "I wouldn't get near your ass with my pole if my life depended on it. No telling what I'd catch. That, and even if I _wasn't_ straight, like I said, your ass isn't worth the cost to fix my window."

Mox stands, walks hip-shot and confident right to the counter, leans against it sideways. This smells like an opportunity. "Be worth it to get rid of me, though, wouldn't it? And - c'mon, it ain't like you haven't been eyeballing me all morning. I'm not buying you're straight. But, hey, you don't want me around here. I'm annoying and I ain't gonna stop asking you questions." He reaches over with his uninjured hand and curls a couple fingers into the V of Leakee's wash-faded hoodie. "Seems like you got a lotta pent-up anger, man. I'm a good place to work that out. Mean, I'll give as good as I get - fair warning - but you look like you could use an outlet."

He almost laughs again at the way Leakee swallows. It's an honest-to-God challenge now, so he feels not even the least scrap of shame when he darts in lightning quick and licks a greasy kiss across Leakee's mouth.

There's zero reaction, and Mox doesn't linger long enough for it to blow up in his face.

Instead, he lets his oversized shorts fall down low over his ass, and sashays back to the pile of nails. Before he sits, he deliberately bends over to move his garbage out of the way, exposing the top part of his ass. Doesn't look around, but doesn't need to to know that Leakee's watching.

Straightening, he tugs his tee shirt off and tosses it carelessly onto the floor. Kicks his flip-flops off. Sits down on the shirt. Palms his dick through the loose fabric.

Moans aloud when he starts to stiffen. "Ohhhh, fuck that feels nice."

The pain in his both his hand and his head have tuned down to a dull throb, easy to ignore.

This is much more fun.

Leakee growls a little, deep in his throat, shoves away from the register and heads into the back of the store again. He stumbles in his haste to get away, catching himself on the door frame.

The door rattles in his hinges when he slams it shut.

"Have fun jerking off!" Mox calls after him, laughing.

Suddenly, this godawful trainwreck of a day doesn't seem quite so bad.


	4. Tossed Away

**IV.** **Tossed Away**

While Leakee's off - ostensibly - beating his meat, Mox takes the opportunity to dump double-handfuls of nails into whatever-the-fuck bins he feels like. Doesn't even bother to be quiet about it or try to make it look halfway even, either.

Once the last of the pokey fuckers are put away, Mox slips his tee shirt out from under his butt and wads it up to use as a pillow for his head.

He's earned a nap.

Tiled floor isn't exactly the most comfortable place to crash, but he's slept in worse places.

He's not actually _expecting_ to fall asleep - Leakee's probably a two-pump chump - but sure-shit, he drifts off right there on a patch of sunlit tile, full belly and the hangover-throb in his temples finally quieted down.

How long he's down, he has no idea, but what brings him back something cold and sharp raining down on his legs. His fuzzy brain shoves a dumb question at him - ' _s this a match? 'S that glass?_ \- in the half-second it takes him to kick his way out of sleep.

More things fall on him.

Nails, he realizes belatedly right as another bin of them falls on his legs. "Rise and shine, Moxley."

"What the...?!" Mox yelps, instinctively scrabbling backward. The sudden movement sends a painful jolt licking up his wrist - one he has to grit his teeth not to scream through. "God, what the _fuck_?"

"You did the nails wrong," Leakee says in a flat, no-bullshit tone. "Do them right. Stop screwing around. Thought you had _important things_ you needed to go do."

"Are always this big an asshole after you get off?" Mox bites back. He pulls himself up slowly to sit.

"I didn't get off."

Mox leans closer to sniff in Leakee's general direction. "Smells like you did."

It doesn't, but he gets a kick out of the rush color that reddens Leakee's wide face. "Get your ass back to work," the big guy grunts. "Stop screwing around."

"I'd rather be screwing _you_ , honestly," Mox drawls, all lazy-like. He drags the fingers of his uninjured hand across his nipples, holding Leakee's gaze the entire way. "Or you be screwing me. You didn't have to run away and jerk off, man. I would've been happy to give you a hand. Or a mouth. Or an ass. Or just watch, if that's your thing."

He's pretty sure Leakee's eyes fog over for a second, but dude can't seem to stop fighting himself. "What the hell is your _problem,_ Moxley?" he asks unevenly. "I'm trying to help you here. You made this mess and all I'm asking is for you to do the right thing and help clean it up. I'm not making you pay for anything. I'm not calling the cops on you - which I should. I've given you food and aspirin. All I want is for you to clean up your damn mess."

"And _I'm_ just tryina say I ain't worth a damn at cleanin' up messes," Mox says. "I can make 'em, but I don't clean 'em for shit. I told you. You're better off fuckin' what you want outta me and sortin' out your nails yourself. I'd just fuck it up anyway."

But a big old balloon of a thought pops in his head:

Judging by the condition of that hovel upstairs, Leakee here ain't much at cleaning up messes, either.

No wonder the dude's being so fucking stubborn about this.

Said stubborn fucker shakes his head and says, like the stubborn fucker he is, "I'm not having sex with you. Stop saying that."

Mox pinches a nipple, slow to play off how fucking awkward it is left-handed. "Your mouth says no, but the come stain on your shorts says yes."

Leakee's mouth drops open as looks down at the front of his shorts.

There's no stain there, of course, and Mox falls back on his ass, laughing. This is too fuckin' easy. Feeling brazen, he shimmies out of his shorts, mindful, as he does of the nails scattered all around him.

"Put your clothes on!" Leakee yells.

"Nah," Mox says, arranging himself cross-legged right there at Leakee's sandaled feet. "'S comfortable." A wadded up tee shirt and shorts provide his bare ass at least a little padding. It's maybe a little cool here with his tool hanging out, but the outrage on Leakee's broad face is de-fucking-licious.

Guy looks like he can't decide if he wants to tackle Mox here or fuck him.

And Mox, he curls a couple clumsy fingers around his dick and gives it an experimental tug or two, never once breaking eye contact. His dick stays soft, but it gets all warm and interested like it _could_ be hard with a little more attention. It's like _What's up, man? We gettin' some?_

What makes it even better is that Leakee peeks.

Of _course_ he does.

Dark eyes flick downward and hover long enough for things to start getting all nice and toasty in Mox's hand. Another pair of lazy rubs, and blood zooms down to firm things up. And still Mox smiles up at Leakee, this lazy, dirty curl of a thing. He gives his thumb a nice long lick, curling his tongue all the way around for emphasis, and then drags the wet ball of that same thumb along the tip of his dick.

Oh, he's got Leakee's attention there, doesn't he? Big guy's just staring down with his mouth open, his toes maybe six inches from Mox's knees. That's _want_ if Mox has ever seen it, drool practically pouring through Leakee's scraggly beard.

Ain't a bad-looking dude, Leakee, even with the messy hair and beard in desperate need of a trim.

"Seein' somethin' ya like?" Mox drawls, husk and rasp, a cat napping in sunshine. He gives his thumb a lick again and tastes a hint of bitter salt. This isn't as revolting as he thought it would be. He's not sure what that says about him. "'S all yours, dude. Just gotta take it."

He decides to chance it, and lets go of his dick to sneak three fingers under the edge of Leakee's hoodie. They slip between warm elastic and even warmer skin, and start to tug down.

_Gotcha, big boy. Oh, I got you._

Leakke clamps a meaty hand around Mox's wrist. He has _huge_ hands. Mox isn't exactly a small dude, but Leakee's paws are big enough to circle his wrist and then some.

"Get up," Leakee says, voice almost cracking with impatience.

Mox lets himself be dragged to his feet and across the hardware store, careful not to step in any of the glass or anything still laying around. "Y'wanna…? We doin' this on the counter there, or…? Are we goin' back upstairs?"

Not that he wants to fuck in that disgusting shithole, but if it gets him out of this, it'll be worth it.

_I asked for it_ , he reminds himself. _I asked for this._

It's a song he wishes he didn't have to sing so damn often, but his life lately is a neverending series of roads that end up in this same place: him having to use his scarred-up, worked over body as currency. Light tubes getting shattered over his back or a dick getting shoved down his throat - end of the day, it always came back to a pound of his flesh.

_It'll be worth it_.

At least Leakee's decent-looking.

Except instead of heading back up those creaky stairs, Leakee opens the alley door and pushes Mox out onto the concrete stoop. Then he holds out Mox's cell phone, which Mox doesn't even remember setting down. "You wanna fuck me in the alley?" he asks, confused. "Doin' it in the rear - yeah, that's a funny joke, but-"

"Go," Leakee cuts him off. "Get out of here."

Mox eyes Leakee narrowly. "What?"

"I'm calling the cops," Leakee says, folding his arms over his chest. "I'm filing a report. Figure I'll be sporting and give you a five-minute head start. Better run."

"Very fucking funny," Mox says, uneasy.

"Who's joking?" Leakee says, and the walks backward into the shop, nudging the door closed behind him.

"I'm _naked_ , you fucking _fuck_!" Mox shouts. "This isn't funny."

He tries to open the door, but it doesn't budge. Fucking thing is locked tight.

"Are you _fucking_ kidding me?!" Like a complete fucking idiot, he bangs the side of his injured hand against the door. Pain explodes along his entire forearm like some huge mousetrap has just slammed down on it. He dances away shaking it. " _Ow_! _Fucker_! _Son of a cuntfucking bitch_! _Ow_!"

Laughter drifts through the door.

"Oh, you _fucker_!" he bellows, a raging wildcat. He fetches the door a hard kick with a bare heel. Which does exactly jack and shit except jar him all the way to his teeth. "Lay-ah-key! Gimme my fucking clothes back! _Lay-ah-key_! Hey! Gimme my shit back!"

He's out there bare-ass naked, junk flying every which way while he tries in vain to kick the fucking door down. His fucking blood pressure has spiked so high it feels like his head's about to pop off.

After maybe a minute, he hears a window slide open somewhere overhead, followed by Leakee's chuckling, "Here, _pro_. You're used to running around in your underwear, aren't you? It's what you 'wrestlers' do. Here ya go. Tick-tock. You got four minutes."

Something small and blue and _wet_ sails down onto the pavement in the middle of the alley. It lands with a _slap_ in the middle of a circle that looks like a water balloon had just blown up.

Mox curls his uninjured hand around his junk and makes his cautious way over. It's his underwear, all right, the blue briefs completely soaked. Gritty, too, since they'd landed in some dirt.

He shakes them out best he can and drags them on anyway, wincing at the cold, sandpaper feel of them. It's better than walking around with his balls all flopping around everywhere, he guesses. Even so, he sends a one-fingered salute to the upstairs window. He can see Leakee's dirty-ass hoodie through the gap in the curtain.

" _Fuck you_!" Mox yells at the top of his lungs. " _Fuckyou fucker_!"

_Jon Moxley in an alley with impotent anger._

Leakee pulls the curtains apart and taps a cell phone against the window. Then he holds up three thick fingers.

_Three minutes_.

There's a fist-sized rock near one of the dumpsters, and _fuck_ , Mox is tempted to throw it up at that window just to see the big man jump.

Self-preservation kicks in, though, those well-honed instincts: he has a mighty need to not to be arrested in soaking wet underwear - have some shitty mugshot taken and somebody like Zandig catching wind of it. That ice is paper thin. Last thing he needs is some ridiculous news story like that circulating around. An arrest on his record would probably be the death kiss for his wrestling career.

So he runs, bare feet slapping painfully over rough concrete, phone clutched tight in his good hand, bad hand cradled to his chest. Every step jars his fucking wrist like crazy, and he grits his teeth against the pain-flairs. He's sure he looks like some feral dog, bared teeth and wild eyes and shaggy hair in his eyes, but he's _not_ going to let himself get caught like this.

Luck's on his side because there isn't a soul on the sidewalk when he's vomited out of the alley's mouth. Couple cars floating by on the street to his right, but none keeping him from dashing across into the next alley. It's all shade and about fifteen degrees colder than the street, but Mox breaks into a sweat halfway down, lungs burning. He can't run as fast as he wants to because there's busted glass in front of half the fucking dumpsters, but he goes a hell of a lot faster than a walk.

If Leakee calls the cops, it'll probably take them fifteen or twenty minutes to get to the store. Probably another ten minutes before they'd start looking.

Fucking prick kept the wallet, but all that was in there was his Ohio driver's license and a couple of maxed-out credit cards. Nothing with Sami's address on it. Nothing with anybody's address on it. Nobody in Ohio outside of Cody Hawke even knows where the fuck he is right now, so there's a better than even chance he can at least make it back to Sami's place.

Right now, it's empty alley after empty alley, and Mox running blind, trying not to get his feet - or any other part of him - cut to shreds.

Four alleys later, his side gets a bad stitch in it, and he slows to try to get his bearings. Smells like garbage and fresh coffee, and he pauses between a couple of dumpsters, panting. He dials Sami's number again with an impatient thumb, and puts the phone to his ear, shifting his weight between his feet while it rings and rings.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," he mutters.

Sami picks up on the fifth ring with a thick, "'S up?"

"It's me, Sami," Mox says. "You and Chrissy still out running errands?"

There's a pause before Sami says, "Just finishing lunch. You need a ride still?"

"Yeah," Mox says. "Soon, if you can. Kind of in a jam here."

"What kind of a jam?" Sami asks.

"The kind where I'm kinda standing in my underwear behind a coffee shop," Mox admits.

On the other end of the line, Sami chuckles. This isn't even the strangest state Mox has been in when he's called. "I don't even want to know, man. Did you call Zandig?"

"Yeah, he said I'm benched for like six weeks, but I can come down for TOD. That's fine. I think I fucked up my hand anyway. Kinda hit a wall earlier." Mox looks down at it. There's some definite bruising starting to happen on the back. It's swollen, and his knuckles are blood-crusty. He can't really make a fist or bent it up or down without a pain-bolt.

"'Kay, well," Sami says in his dry trucker's rasp, "tell me exactly where you are, and we'll be on our way."

Mox does.

Then he steps back into the shadows to wait.

* * *

Mox honestly breathes a sigh of relief when Sami's old rustbucket of a car pulls into the alley.

Sami and Chrissy take one look at him and just laugh.

"Fuck you guys," he mutters, wedging himself into the narrow backseat. "Fuck _everything_ about this fucking day."

And fuck Leakee, too.


	5. Way Down  We Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General warnings for mentions of drugs and questionable consent. Nothing explicit. This is kind of an interlude. Two very lost boys.

**V. Way Down We Go**

Jon Moxley dreams:

_Some roachbag somewhere. Drunk o'clock._

_Decided going to get shit-faced at some party sounded like a much better idea than sticking around Sami's and worrying about cops or Lay-ah-key or having to explain himself to anyone._

_Reality is bullshit, anyway. Fuck having to face shit. Fuck fixing problems._

_The view from the floor's boring, but Mox can't seem to coordinate his limbs enough to move. It's okay. There's music coming from somewhere and the wall he'd slid down is doing a good job holding him up. It's a good wall._

_Plus, he has booze._

_But then a guy Mox vaguely knows is there, sitting right beside him._

" _What happened to your hand, Mox-boy?" the guy - Todd or Greg or Mike or something - asks. He's a shrunken, sawed-off thing with freaky, darting eyes and a constant habit of licking his lips. Twitchy. Bald head with a scabby face. Always wears the same ragged Judas Priest tee shirt and jeans. Smells like BO and dirty socks. "Looks like it hurts."_

_Mox squints down at the cast he'd made out of Ace bandages and athletic tape, and tries to get his alcohol-pickled brain to remember. It still hurts, even this many whatever-he's-drinkings into tonight._

Today?

_Might actually be daytime. He thinks maybe he can see daylight across the room. That could just be a TV, though. It's hard to tell when he's sitting on the floor._

" _Dunno," he slurs. "P-Punsh…._ Punched _s-suh….uh, somethin 'r s-somethin. I dunno. B-broke it."_

_Todd-Greg-Mike licks his greasy lips. "Y'want something? I got stuff. Coke or speed. Maybe some weed? Take the edge off."_

" _Huh-uh. I d-don't…. Don't do 'em 'nymore."_

_He's not his mother._

" _No, like. Pills. I got Percs and Oxy. Valium, too. I got the good stuff. Real stuff. Make it all feel better. I'll sell 'em to you cheap."_

" _No." Mox lifts the bottle of dollar-store vodka to his mouth and drinks. Shit tastes like paint thinner and burns like fire going down. His vision swims. "'M broke a-anyway."_

" _Then lemme fuck your ass." Todd-Greg-Mike licks his lips again like some hungry dog. "I've been wantin to fuck your ass like crazy. Lemme raw-dog you and you can have all the pills I got."_

" _Fuggoff. Not get-gettin' yer shitty dis-dish…diseased dick near my ass."_

" _I'm clean, Jonny-boy. I swear I'm clean. Lemme come in your ass and then you won't be feeling nothing for a while. No pain."_

_In his dream, Mox chugs more booze until things get too blurry. He thinks he says no again (although not feeling his miserable bitch of a hand for a while sounds pretty fucking great), but everything sort of shifts into a dark blur and fades into nonsense..._

_('M I dreamin?)_

When Mox wakes up later, hangover buzzsaw snarling its way through him, he's curled up under somebody's kitchen table. There's a baggie of pills and a half-empty bottle of vodka by his hand.

Despite the murderous throb in his temples, he manages to lift his head.

Wishes he hadn't.

His shirt's all rucked up under his armpits, and somehow his pants and underwear have ended up wadded down around just one ankle. He's practically bare-ass here, and as he shifts around to try to pull them up, he feels this deep, raw ache in his asshole - like the fucking thing has been torn open all the way up his goddamn intestines.

It probably hasn't, but it hurts worse than even his fucking _hand_ , and his hand hurts a _lot_ , this maddening low throb that pulses in time with his heartbeat.

He's also pretty sure there's something crusted between his asscheeks and down on the back of his thigh.

"Oh, shit," he croaks, squeezing his eyes shut.

Which is about the point his stomach decides to give up the fight, and he turns his head in time to throw up all over the tile.

His body exacting its revenge on him: _You have this coming, you idiot motherfucker_.

He can't even move; he just heaves and heaves until there's nothing left in him to come out.

And then he paws open the pills with a hand that that's as coordinated as a club, and washes two of whatever the fuck they are down with a generous mouthful of cheap vodka.

Three minutes later, he passes the fuck back out.

If there are dreams this time, he doesn't remember any of them.

Doesn't remember much for a while, really.

* * *

Across the city, Roman Leakee surveys the damage inside his shop, and thinks about what he needs to do:

He needs to sweep that up and take it to the back so he can sort through it later.

He needs to call the police and report that Jonathan Moxley asshole.

He needs to call his insurance company and report this.

He needs to call somebody about the window.

He needs to finish cleaning this mess.

He needs to clean the apartment.

He needs to clean himself up.

He needs to...

He needs…

He...

 _Later_.

It's too much, and he is so, so goddamn tired of everything.

Across the city, Roman Leakee walks over to the counter of a hardware store he never wanted in the first place, and pulls out a sheet of plain white paper. There's an old red marker stashed between the old gray cash register and the new black credit card reader.

He takes the marker and carefully writes a note on the paper.

Heavy feet carry him across the store, stepping right through the mess because he doesn't have the energy to actually go around it. Straight lines are easier. They take him directly to the door, where he uses some clear packing tape to stick the note to the door.

That done, he turns away from the door and the mess, and walks slowly upstairs.

His stomach clenches at the smell that assaults him when he opens the door, and he experiences a moment of white-hot frustration-hatred-rage at everything. At the smell. At the mess. At Moxley for being so disgusting and uncooperative. At his family. At his uncle for dying.

At himself.

Mostly at himself.

But that burns out, too.

It snuffs itself out the way Moxley had snuffed out a smoke earlier, all at once.

Tiredly, he wades through the mess on the floor and goes into the kitchen. He keeps his eyes on the grimy tile so he doesn't have to look at the piles of dishes and trash everywhere. It doesn't help. There's crumbs and wadded up fast food wrappers, and the moldy-rotting smell in here is enough to make his eyes water.

Aside from a lonely gallon of milk, his refrigerator contains nothing but cases of beer. He takes a twelve-pack and retreats to his couch, where he sinks down and pulls an old blanket around his legs.

Then he turns on the TV, cracks a beer, and gets busy getting himself drunk.

_Later._

He'll deal with it all later.

[ _CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE_ ]

* * *

**Shuffle:**

("Y'wanna fight me, fuckstick? Huh? Step up."

"Look at this drunk bitch right here! Okay, Mox, you fucking shitbag. I'll even give you the first swing. C'mon, drunk-ass. You're so fucked up you couldn't hit the side of a fucking barn. I dare ya. C'mon. C'mon, Mox. Step the fuck up. Show me how tough you-"

 _THUMP_!

"-are. Oh, Mox, you're fucking _dead_ , you cheap-shotting son of a - _fuck!_ _Fuck_! Get 'im off me! Get 'im off me! Fuck! Get this crazy fucker _off me_!"

 _THUMP!_ )

**Shuffle:**

("The fuck's that guy's problem? Swear to Christ he's been starin' at the wall for like the last two hours."

"Don't worry about him. That's Mox. He's just kinda...like, fucked up. I think. I dunno."

"The fuck happened to his face?"

"A fight or some shit the other day."

"Wow. He is fucking _gone_. Hey, do you think think he's got anything on him? More of whatever he's on? Money? Looks so out of it I bet he wouldn't even notice."

"I dunno. Go look.")

**Shuffle:**

("Y'want some more of those pills, Mox? I got more. Same price as before. Lemme raw-dog ya. Maybe I get a little rougher this time, eh? Don't think nobody would notice. Whaddya say?")

**Suffle:**

("Dude. Mox. _Hey_. You-? The fuck are you doing out here? This is the fucking alley. Where the fuck are your clothes? The hell happened to you? Mox? _Mox_. Hey. Fuck, how many of those fucking things did you _take_? Get up, dude. I'll give you a ride back to Sami's.")

* * *

Five days post break-in, Roman Leakee walks heavily down into his hardware store.

It's still the same mess it's been since Hurricane Moxley blew out of here.

Guilt crushes his chest.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thinks, watching some people walk by outside. _I'll deal with this tomorrow._

He turns and heads back upstairs, back to his beer and the ringing emptiness of his apartment.

* * *

Jon Moxley also dreams:

_Big dude in a cop's uniform. Dark hair and dark eyes. Wide face. Angry. Got his baton out, and pointed at Mox's chest. "That's him! Arrest him!"_

_Mox runs over a street that's like a glue trap, that's like a conveyor belt going the wrong way. He's too slow. He goes past buildings that look like tombstones, with their vacant-eyed windows. And he's naked._

_People are watching run with their gaping ha-ha mouths sprung open like this is some fucking ha-ha joke. Crooked little fingers point at him and ha-motherfucking-ha, this is such a fucking_ joke _._

 _The cops are coming and soon he won't have a career anymore. They're gonna eat his legs off and he won't be able to_ wrestle _after that. They'll take everything._

 _He runs and he runs but he's not going_ fast _enough and he can feel them breathing down his back._

_Dragon breath._

" _Arrest him!" the voice bellows. "Mox, stop running. Mox! Mox! Mox-_ "

"Mox!"

"...nn..."

" _Mox_ , wake the fuck up, dude!"

"Nn…"

"Wake the fuck up, Moxley. Jesus Christ. Open your fucking eyes, man."

A nudge to the ribs, the hard tread of somebody's shoe poking right into his side. And shaking.

 _Earthquake_?

Someone right by his ear, rasp and frustration: "Wake the fuck _up_ , Moxley!"

 _Wake up_. _Wakeup wakeup wakeup_.

"G'way," he slurs at all of it. "Fuggoff 'n leame 'lone."

"Thank fucking Christ," that voice says. "Mox, holy fuck, man. Open your fucking eyes."

Confusion twists through the sludge. Mox manages to pry open eyelids that are rusted the fuck shut. It's too bright, though. Someone's shining the fucking sun right into his eyeballs, searing his goddamn retinas and _nope_. _Nopenopenope_. "Th'fuck. Sami?"

"Yeah, dude. Yeah, it's me. Fucking look at me, wouldya?"

The second try doesn't go much better. Something's wrong with one of his eyes because it only opens maybe a third of the way, and the son-of-a-bitch doesn't want to focus. It just wants to water. The other one is better: a few blinks against the harsh-white of the daylight filtering into the room, and Sami's hovering moon of a face floats into view. "'S up?"

He's not sure what he's expecting, but he's not prepared to have Sami swoop in and drag him up to sit against the wall. The change in altitude is fucking dizzying. Sami hunkers down right in front of him, spiky hair and spiky frown and spiky chain necklace. "What's up is that Rob guy or whatever the fuck his name is dumped you off here, and you haven't moved in like twelve hours. I was starting to think you were fucking dead."

Sami's voice is gravel crushing against gravel, harsh and hard on the ears. Mox flinches away from it. "'M fine, Sami. Jus' need sleep."

"Where the fuck have you been?" Sami demands. "You disappeared a fucking week ago without a goddamn trace. Didn't even bother to answer your fucking phone. Anything could have happened to your sorry ass and I wouldn't have known. What the _fuck_ , Mox?"

"Uh..." Mox drags a hand that weighs an approximate ton across his face. Tries to think through the thick pain-fog that's starting to settle over him like a smothering blanket. There's mostly just haze and void. "Dunno."

"Here, dumbfuck." Sami shoves a glass of water into Mox's hand. "Drink this. You better not puke on the fucking carpet, either, or Chrissy'll kill you. I'll watch."

Things swim more into focus as Mox drinks. They're in Sami's spare bedroom, an empty square of a space that's just carpet and bare walls and a few boxes of Mox's shit shoved into one corner.

He stinks, is the next thing he realizes: stale booze and stale BO and stale blood. Greasy hair. His fucking teeth feel like they're wrapped in fuzzy wool sweaters. Not a part of him that doesn't hurt. His aches have aches, and they're in places they shouldn't be.

_...the fuck did I do?_

Under the blankets, he's bare-ass naked. What he can see of his chest is bruise-stained, fist-sized purple splotches decorating him from ribcage to shoulder. There are some on his arms, too, and the knuckles of both hands are split and crusted with dried blood. The back of his right hand has two bands of deep angry purple running from under his knuckles to his wrist. It screams at him when he twitches into a fist.

Suddenly, he's not so sure he wants to know.

"You good?" Sami asks then. "Not gonna puke?"

"No," Mox manages. "Fuck are my clothes?"

Sami rearranges himself cross-legged on the floor, his jaw working the way it does when he's fixing to tear into somebody. A bulldog going after a steak. "I don't know. This was how you came back. You tell me."

"Fucked if I know."

"That Rob guy, he said he found you passed out in the alley behind his dumpster. He had a party the other night, and you were there all fucked up. He thought you left, but he found you passed out by the dumpster just like this."

"The dumpster," Mox says stupidly. He shivers, and pulls the blankets tighter around himself.

_Jesus fucking Christ._

( _I'm not her, I'm nothing like her, I'm not her…_ )

"You really don't remember?"

"Huh-uh."

"Must have been a hell of a bender, then. I've seen fucking roadkill that looks more alive than you do. The fuck made you jump off the rails so hard, man? You never even told me. That shit at CZW last week? You never told me what brought all that on."

It takes Mox a good five seconds to even figure out what the fuck Sami was saying, and another five seconds beyond that to remember the answer. "M'mom ODed. Kinda fucked me up."

"Your mom?" Sami's eyes bug open wide. "Holy fuck, dude. Is she…?"

"She's okay." Mox squeezes his eyes shut against the headache that's threatening to explode his skull. "Last I heard, anyway."

"Fuck, dude, do you need to go back?"

"No."

"You sure? It's your mom-"

"'M not goin back there," Mox growls. "Fuck her. She just wants me to go back 'n take care of her 'til she's well enough to go scab for drugs again Fuck that shit. 'M not feedin into it."

Sami leans away a little, lifts a hand the way he might to ward off a snarling dog. "Okay, all right. Take it easy, man. I was just asking."

"Don't." Suddenly Mox wishes he had a cigarette. "'S fine. Leave it alone."

"Okay." There's a pause as loaded as anything. Sami tugs at the frayed edge of a tear in his jeans. Doesn't look up. "Well, listen, dude. Gotta talk to you about something. Now's probably not a good time, but I gotta leave for work here soon-"

"Work?" Mox cuts in. "You got a match or somethin?"

"It's seven-thirty in the morning, dipshit," Sami says sharply. "The fuck would I be wrestling this early? I got a job. I'm unloading trucks at this warehouse. Chrissy got her hours cut at work, and money's getting really fucking tight around here, so I had to. She's talking about renting this room out to somebody so we have help. So either you gotta get your shit together and get a job yourself, or we're gonna have to kick you out. Which is the last fucking thing we wanna do. So, like. I left the info for the temp agency that I went through to get this warehouse gig on the table. If you call 'em and get signed up, get working, then you can kick in and you can stay here. Long as you're pitching in - even if it's just a hundred here and a hundred there - that'll help."

"'M a wrestler," Mox mutters. "That _is_ my fucking job."

"You're not wrestling for like five weeks." Sami's points at Mox's hand. "You wouldn't even be able to right now, anyway with that hand. I got a couple extra wraps and tape in the bathroom. If you're gonna be a fuckhead and not go get that looked at, then at least wrap that shit up."

"All right, all right, all right. Jesus, Sami. Get off my nuts, wouldya?"

Sami pushes to his feet in a flurry of a jangling chain wallet and creaking leather workboots, and he looks down at Mox in a way he never has before: hard, cool. "Look, if all you're gonna do is go out and get fucked up this week, then I can't stop you. 'S your life. But if you wanna stay here, then get your shit together and go get signed up at that temp service. I gotta go. I gotta drop Chrissy off and get to work. We'll be back around five. If nothing else, Mox, at least take a fucking shower today. You fucking reek."

Mox sends a half-hearted middle finger Sami's way, and slumps back into the floor, naked and weak and sore and fucking exhausted.

(" _Lemme raw-dog you_.")

(" _You're not wrestling for five weeks._ ")

(" _Pro._ ")

(" _Get your shit together_.")

 _Fuck this,_ Mox thinks at all of it.

_Fuckyou fuckers. Fuckyou fuckyou fuckyou._

He closes his eyes and goes the fuck back to sleep.


	6. Runaway Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't say this enough, but thanks, everybody, for reading. Another one in a string of bad days for Mox. This one is probably the worst yet. I've updated a couple tags, so watch out for that. This one's on the heavy side.

**VI. Runaway Train  
**

Tuesday bleeds into Wednesday bleeds into Thursday.

On one of those days, Mox drags himself out from under his blanket pile and drags on some clothes and drags his sorry ass out of the apartment. He's pretty sure he sees a piece of paper flutter off the kitchen table on his way out the door, but he can't find a single fuck to spare for it.

Walking hurts.

He's all ground glass joints and razorwire bones, and every step feels like a fresh cut opening up.

Down deep, too, it aches in a way that makes him want to kill somebody.

But there's this hissing static in his head where memory should be, and he's fucked if he can actually put a name to whose face he wants to rearrange with a baseball bat. Humpty-fuckin'-dumpty, right here - and all the king's horses and all the king's men can't put his fucking memories back together again.

Fresh air and sunshine don't help.

People stare when he walks past, disturbed and judgmental as always (some chubby business guy even crossing the street to avoid him), and he knows it's because he looks like he's been dragged behind a car. The bruises on his face have bruises, and his clothes are all faded and torn. He wants to pull a _Fight Club_ and get right up in their hostile goddamn faces with it, snap at them, watch them cower in fear, like _What? I can take a punch, ya buncha pussies. Can you? That's fucking_ right _you can't. Assholes. Fuck you looking at?_

He settles for staring right back at them until they look away.

"'S right," he mutters on his way past them. "Fuckers."

Man on a fucking mission right here: drink enough alcohol to put himself into a coma.

He'd dug his phone out from inside his pile of laundry and texted around to some people he knew, just seeing if anyone was up for drinking. Turned out there were a bunch of people getting together at one of his CZW buddies' apartments, and they were definitely up for having Mox around to liven things up.

Liven things up.

He can fucking do that.

_Here I am, motherfuckers!_

Here: an apartment not terribly far from the arena. It's in a neighborhood that's nothing but sagging old apartment buildings. They look tired, fed up. What trees grow in front of them are small, pathetic sticks, and the grass is patchy - more dirt than lawn. A lot of cars parked over their own oil puddles, rust blooms like weeds, cracked windshields, and slowly deflating bald tires.

It's still a step up from the government housing he grew up in, but not by much. If the government housing was the lowest possible rung of life's ladder, than this was the rung above it.

(When he'd powered up his phone, he'd had like four missed calls from his aunt, two from his mother, and a text from one of them that had said simply, "I miss you son. I love you. please come home." He'd deleted it and spent probably twenty minutes staring at the wall, blank and fuming. "You don't," he'd croaked at his shadow. "You fucking don't. Fuck you. Fuck you so much.")

But there's beer to be had, and he hears the party long before he makes it to the third floor, music blaring out of a window and people laughing their asses off.

Somebody he doesn't know greets him with a drunken grin at the door, and someone else bellows, " _Mox_! Fuckin-a! Mox is here! Get this man a motherfuckin _beer_!"

It's four-thirty p.m.

Mox grins and squeezes into the crowded apartment. People everywhere, sprawled on the floor and flopped all over the furniture, boneless and languid. Some high, others well on their way to drunk. Music thumping. Weed thick and pungent in the air, giving everything a gray haze. He doesn't recognize half these people, and it doesn't even matter. "Goddamn right! Where's my beer?"

Someone shoves a cup of cold keg beer into his hands, sloshing foam onto his hoodie's frayed cuff.

It's fine.

He stands in the middle of the packed living room and slams the cup in one go, amid a boisterous chant of, "Chug! Chug! Chug!"

Afterward he slams the cup on the floor, burps, wipes away the foam mustache. "Gimme another one!"

_I have arrived, motherfuckers!_

* * *

"Do-it! Do-it! Do-it!"

It's later.

Not quite enough for Mox to be blackout drunk yet, but enough that he's riding the line between buzzed and wasted. Sun's gone down outside and so has all his pain.

Party's in full fucking swing.

He's sitting alone at the coffee table while everyone stands around him, a row of six tequila shots and six cups of beer arranged in a line, all ready to be demolished.

This is gonna fuck him up hardcore - and he can't wait.

"Do-it! Do-it! Do-it!"

But then.

But _then_.

Behind the crowd, the light changes, and between a couple of people Mox sees the apartment door vomit somebody into the entryway. Little dude wearing a greasy trucker hat. Skinny. Pock-marked, scabby face.

"Hey, Greg!" somebody says over the music. "Hey, ya made it! Just in time!"

"Danny-boy!' the guy - Greg - replies, and the sound of his voice nasal and gravel and fucking familiar, cuts right the fuck through Mox's buzz. "What's up, man?" And right about that time, Greg looks into the crowd, his watery eyes lighting right up. His grin reveals mossy teeth. "Hey-hey, Mox! Hey, shit, how they hanging' man? They said you'd be here. What up? Fixin' to run the gauntlet, huh?"

"...uh-huh," Mox says, flat as flat can be.

Greg squeezes his bony shoulders through the crowd and pauses near the edge of the coffee table, ripped boots right near Mox's knee. "I brought more pills, man. Just for you. Whaddya ya? Cost you a couple more rounds this time, but you wouldn't mind that, eh? Little more raw-doggin? I think you like that."

(" _Lemme raw-dog ya_.")

Mox isn't even aware he's going to move until he's tackled the skinny little fuck to the ground. Greg's hat goes flying when he hits. Lightning-quick, Mox straddles him. Guy's nothing more than matchstick bones and a mop of greasy hair, but he bucks like a goddamn bull until Mox rears back and sends a sledgehammer of a punch right into his fucking mush.

" _Fuckyou, fucker! I'll kill you! Fuckyou fuckyou fuckyou!_ "

He punctuates each _fuckyou_ with another wildcat blow, both fists blurring on their way down. Fucking _pulverizing_ Greg's face until it's bleeding like a squashed tomato. Mox is pretty sure he feels the _crunch_ of a broken nose there somewhere, the _snap_ of a busted cheekbone. His wrist bellows in pain, but it's just as distant as the surprised sounds from everybody looking on. Distant. Unimportant.

(" _Lemme raw-dog ya_.")

" _ged 'im off me! ged 'im off me! ged him off me! ged im-_ "

" _I'll kill you! Don't touch me again you fucking sick fucker I'll fucking-_ "

" _Mox_! _Mox-Mox-Mox stop! Stop stop stop! You're-!_ "

" _-off me! ged 'im off me!"_

" _-kill you!_ "

" _-gonna kill him! Let him go, Mox!_ "

(" _Lemme raw-dog ya._ ")

Fists-blood-saliva flying every which-way, and Mox can feel the harsh scrape of his breath in his throat, feels the burn in his shoulder, the madman howl in his wrist. Doesn't care.

Something - someone? - grabs him by the arms, claws hooked under his armpits, and drags him backward.

" _No_!" he shouts, twisting to free himself. "Lemme go."

" _MOX_!" a voice bellows in his ear. "Mox, calm the fuck _down_ , dude. What the _fuck_. Jesus Christ."

Mox blinks, and it's like someone pulls back a curtain in a dark room, daylight bleeding in to reveal the scene in front of him. He's sitting on his ass at the far end of the couch, with two people holding him back. There's twenty, thirty people crowded shoulder-to-shoulder in a living room that's big enough for maybe ten, all of them looking on in varying degrees of stunned horror. They're photo-still in a room that's pindrop-silent, some with hands up to their mouths, and others just barely holding onto their drinks.

The coffee table's been overturned, upset tequila shots and beer slowly sinking into the carpet.

And in the eye of the storm, at the other end of the couch, there's Greg: bloody and unmoving, face a punched-in mess.

It's so quiet they can all hear the regular wet rattle of his breathing, and the chugging steamshovel rasp of Mox's.

"...holy shit," one chick finally breathes out. "Is he even _alive_?"

That question seems to break the room's paralysis. The chick who'd asked moves to crouch down beside the skinny sack of shit. He groans faintly and shifts, coughing.

"Laney," another girl says, quiet and sober, "don't get any of his blood on you. Somebody told me a few days ago me they think he's got HIV. Don't touch him. Nobody touch him with your bare hands."

All at once, Mox freezes, his entire body going to ice.

 _HIV_.

The two dudes holding him let go like he's a glowing hot stove, one muttering, "Oh _fuck_."

Half the people in the room turn to stare.

On the floor, Greg coughs again, wet and grinding.

Mox looks down at his shaky bloody hands and his bloody hoodie and scrambles to his feet suddenly, racing off into the bathroom, where he pukes out every bit of everything he's ever drank or eaten in his entire life.

(" _Lemme raw-dog ya_.")

* * *

_This can't be happening,_ Mox chants in his head as he walks, panic-blind and no idea where he's even going. _This can't be happening. This can't be happening_.

The sidewalk he's on is completely empty, night-dark closed around the city like a smothering blanket. He can't even fucking _breathe_ right now. His eyeballs feel like they're about to explode out of his face, there's so much pressure behind them.

After he'd finished retching his guts out, he'd stripped himself naked and showered with the hottest water he could stand, scrubbing at his skin with a scratchy bar of soap until he was red-raw all over, body as red as a boiled lobster. His cracked-open knuckles wept blood down the drain, and his goddamn wrist throbbed mutinously at him. His stomach was just an acid-burnt knot under his ribcage.

And all the washing and scrubbing, it probably didn't even matter because that piece of shit motherfucker had...

He'd…

 _This can't be happening_.

It can't be.

" _FUCK_!" he screams, kicking at a curbside mailbox. A flat, hollow bang rolls down the street as a lone car drifts by. " _FUCK_!"

This cannot be _happening_.

Not to him.

He'd left his hoodie lying on the bathroom floor. Just looking at the blood speckled around the collar made him feel nauseous. His jeans and his undershirt had at least survived, so he'd gotten dressed, and then he'd left. On his way out he grabbed a full bottle of vodka. Hadn't said a word to anyone and hadn't even stopped to see what they were doing with that Greg guy. He'd just left, and didn't even give a fuck: that piece of shit cuntfaced motherfucker could rot in hell as far as Mox was concerned.

Now here he is, treading the dark between streetlights, about to crawls out of his fucking skin because of three little letters. _H-motherfucking I-V_. He'll have to get tested in the morning - _have to_ \- but for right now he just wants to drink until he can't remember anything.

He kicks the mailbox again, rage boiling molten in his veins.

It's not the first scare he's had: two years ago he caught syphilis after a drunken one-night stand, and last year one of the chicks he fucked thought she caught pregnant from him. Turned out she didn't. And the asshole who gave Mox syph the year before that had the decency to at least let him know so he could get it treated. Cleared up just fine.

But he's played Russian Roulette with his sex life a lot in the last few years, and he's always known that sooner or later - just like his mom's drug addiction - that it would probably catch up to him.

 _Bang-bang, motherfucker. Your time's up_.

( _I'm not her I'm not her I'm not her._ )

Maybe.

 _They think he's got HIV_ isn't the same thing as _He's got HIV_ , so maybe.

 _Fucking maybe_.

He leans on the night-cool mailbox and finally cracks open his stolen bottle of vodka, practically upending it over his mouth. It's cheap shit and it tastes it, and it stings his bitten-ragged lower lip, but he figures maybe he'll get lucky and fucking drown right here.

He doesn't.

With about half the bottle left, he finally takes a breath and forces himself to look around.

And he bursts into wild, disbelieving laughter when it hits him just where the fuck he _is_ right now: a few buildings down is the motherfucking hardware store that seemed to be the Go square on this miserable Monopoly board journey his life appears to be taking.

He seriously doubts there's $200 waiting for him when he passes, though.

Probably nothing but a one-way ticket directly to Jail, and all out of Get Out of Jail Free cards.

Still cackling away like a man who's snapped the very last thread holding himself together, he glides through the dark in front of all the closed shops, until he winds up in front of old Lay-ah-key's place. Figures by now the guy will have a nice new window and everything will be all nice and cleaned up inside. Like it never happened.

Except:

There's just enough light from the adjacent store's sign to illuminate a piece of paper taped onto the door: _CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE_. And beside that, where there should be a window by now, there's the same board that had been there when Mox woke up here almost two weeks ago.

He shuffles down a little further and presses his nose to the unbroken window, and in the red from an Exit sign somewhere, he sees it's still a mess. He thinks he recognizes the shorts and tee shirt he was wearing still puddled on the floor in front of a shelf. Still nails spilled all over the place. Piles of tools laying in front of empty shelves.

Could be Lay-ah-key bugged the fuck out of here.

Guy didn't seem like he belonged here in the first place.

Could be maybe he even left Mox's wallet behind. Probably not. Probably the big dude turned it over to the cops by now, but - and maybe it's the vodka talking - it doesn't seem like the worst idea in the world to try to find out for sure. It's not the smartest idea he's had, either (be just his luck to trip an alarm), but _fuck it_. He's pretty sure he could evade cops if it came down to it, even with his head starting to get a little light again.

Getting his fucking wallet back, that ain't gonna make up for the goddamn horrorshow the last hour of his life has been, but at least he'll have something of his own back.

One less thing somebody will have taken from him.

(Or he'll find out that Lay-ah-key did turn it over to the cops. In which case _fuck_. But one way or the other, he'll know for sure.)

He looks around again and doesn't see anybody watching him. No cars. Just a still and eerily quiet street. Almost like it's holding its breath. Out of sheer curiosity, he pushes at the board just to see if it has any give to it. Fucking thing isn't even _nailed in_ at the bottom - just at the top. He's actually able to move it enough to create kind of a doggy-door opening for himself, a gap large enough where he's just able to step right around the edge and into the shop.

Once he's all the way in, he slips the vodka bottle into his back pocket and holds his breath, ears wide open for the sound of an alarm.

Nothing happens.

Nothing happens when he sneaks around the edge of the store and feels his way to the stairs, hands out in front of him in the pitchy dark. He can't even see them. Nearly falls on his fucking face when his shoe hits the edge of a step, but manages to catch himself on the railing.

Nothing happens when he feels his way up the creaky staircase, padding up one step at a time. About two-thirds of the way up, he hears what sounds like muffled voices through the wall, but quiet. Sounds like either two people sitting close to talk to each other, or it's a TV with the volume on low.

And right now, he's not thinking about HIV tests or the fact that he almost beat a guy to death tonight. He's not thinking about Sami and a job he doesn't want to have to get. He's not thinking about cops.

He just wants his fucking wallet back, if he can get it.

Wonders just what exactly he's gonna find on the other side of the door here.

( _Go Directly to Jail. Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect $200._ )

He considers knocking, but ends up just trying the knob instead. Not locked. It squeaks under his hand, and the door swings inward when he pushes it. It encounters some resistance maybe a fifth of the way through its swing, hitting what sounds like a trash bag or something, the way it crinkles. He shoves it a little more, and yeah, it's a trash bag. Fucking thing tips over and spills its guts, empty aluminum cans jangling merrily to the floor like the fucking traitors they are. Assholes.

A sour garbagey smell - stale beer and fast food grease and mold - hits him like a goddamn freight train, making his eyes water like crazy. It freezes him in his tracks, and he has to cover his nose with his arm to try to keep from gagging.

Heavy footsteps plod toward the door, and there's Lay-ah-key to yank the fucking thing the rest of the way open, that same solid wall of _dude_ he was before. Shorts and a hoodie. Doesn't look like he's shaved at all, patchy beard growing in the rest of the way. His eyes home in on Mox's face, half-lidded. Sounds bleary and half out-of-it when he says, "Moxley? What the hell are you doing here?"

Mox summons a god-awful shit-eating grin from somewhere and says, "Hi, honey. I'm home. Miss me?"

And that's about the point Lay-ah-key there rears back with a fist about as big as a fucking truck and plows it right into Mox's face, sending him crashing back into the wall on the far side of the landing.

_(Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect $200.)_

It's just that kind of fucking night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back around to Go. Any comments and criticisms welcome. Thank you for reading.


	7. Free Parking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! Another update. Productive CJ is productive. Don't get used to this. :)
> 
> No warnings needed. Fairly light chapter. Exasperated Leakee and stubborn Mox. The usual, in other words.

**VII. Free Parking**

It's sheer dumb fucking luck that Mox doesn't end up with a broken nose.

Maybe Lay-ah-key there didn't throw his full weight behind the punch or maybe he was just a bit too drunk or something, but it doesn't connect quite square. It lands leftside of Mox's nose and hits him more around the eyebrow. Which still hurts like a motherfucking motherfucker - he swears the Christ he sees little cartoon birdies or some shit - but doesn't actually crunch any bones.

Had enough of that shit tonight.

He just staggers backward into the landing wall and sits down on his ass, stunned.

Fucking lucky fucker that he doesn't go sailing ass-over-teakettle down the stairs, too.

"Well _ow_ ," he says, probing at a badly watering eye. "The fuck was that for?"

"Y'had that comin'," Leakee says, leaning his bulky ass against the doorframe. "What're you doin here?"

Mox cups his hand over the left side of his face. His eyeball probably isn't in any danger of slipping out of his face, what with the way it's already swelling, but he can't be too careful. He lifts his head enough to glare good-eyed at Lay-ah-key there. "I want my wallet back."

"And you thought breaking in - _again_ \- was the way you'd get it?" Leakee shakes his head. "What the hell is _wrong_ with you, man?"

Mox grabs the wall and drags his battered ass up to his feet, still covering his face "Honestly?" he says. "I got drunk last week and some dude offered me pills if I let him fuck me without a condom. Pretty sure I said no, but he did it anyway. I don't remember much except wakin up sore as shit with a bag of pills by me. Pretty sure he did it again a few days after that. I might've killed the guy tonight. I didn't stick around to find out. But get this? That guy? Turns out he prolly has HIV. No shit. So that means I might have it. I'm outside just now thinkin 'How can I _possibly_ make this shitshow of a night any worse? Oh, I know! I'll go see if I can get my wallet back.' Worst that could happen is I go driectly to jail and don't collect no $200. So here I am. You still got it?"

He's aware that Leakee is staring at him; he's also aware he's grateful it's so dark here on this landing because he can't really see Leakee's eyes there. Eventually, the big dude snorts like a bull. Amazing no steam blows out of his nostrils. "You talk a lotta nonsense, Moxley."

Dread Pirate Moxley - _How cool would I look with an eye-patch? Wonder if I could wrestle like that_ \- slouches back against the wall and grins at Leakee. The vodka he'd chugged earlier's finally starting to work its way into his bloodstream, and now everything's got this nice staticky quality to it. A low white-noise buzz. "You'd be right any other night. 'Cuz I'm a champion bullshitter. Not tonight. This here is straight-up, a hundred percent no bullshit truth."

"I don't believe you," Leakee eventually says. "Fuck off outta here 'fore I call the cops for real."

He backs away and goes to shut the door, but Mox, feeling like he's about to dive headfirst down a steep rollercoaster rail, darts forward and shoves his way inside before the latch clicks.

Of course, he's not counting on there being a tipped-over mega-fucking-huge garbage bag right in front of the door.

Even though he's the one who knocked it over.

(Details, details.)

He hits that fucking thing and completely loses his balance, goes skidding, and steps right on a pair of beer cans. And then just pinwheels his arms like a fucking drunk noodle or something and sprawls face-first right the fuck onto _another_ mega-huge fucking trash bag. Thing burps up this gag-inducing rotten food and sour beer smell right in his goddamn _face_.

If his eyes hadn't been dribbling water from that sucker-punch already, he'd sure as fuck be crying for fucking mercy now. 'Cuz there's something like a rotten banana peel or something like an inch from his nose. Sucker is black as Mox's heart and looks like it has a layer of blue fuzz growing on it.

" _Oh what the fuck!"_ he hollers, shoving himself away. "Are you fucking _serious_."

Leakee, standing by the door with his arms folded over his chest, has the audacity to _laugh_.

To _laugh_.

It's a _mean_ -sounding laugh, too, the prick.

"Can't say you didn't have _that_ comin'," is all said prick says - like a prick.

"Fuckyou, fucker," Mox bites out. He crawls to his feet in the warzone of an apartment and takes a proper look around, and… "Jesus fucking Christ, dude, did they move the city dump in here or what?"

There's something like six big-ass trash bags - the kind that go inside 55-gallon drums - lined up along the wall by the TV. They're sort of wrapping around toward the door, like they're some army trying to march the fuck out of this shithole.

Leakee, of course, doesn't say a damn word to defend himself. Just the TV on in the apartment, and that weak-sauce flickering shit doesn't give Mox any kind of bearing on Leakee's expression. It's hard to even see his face like this.

"My wallet?" Mox finally prompts. "That's all I'm here for."

"I don't know," Leakee says after an uncomfortable beat of silence. "Check the washer. Should still be there."

Mox wades away from Trash Mountain and moves to stand in a - relatively - ungarbaged spot on the carpet. He tucks soiled hands under his armpits to keep them away from his face, even though he probably looks like some kind of bawl-baby the way his throbbing fucking eye socket is still watering. Turning in Leakee's general direction, he says, as the dots connect, "You didn't call the cops on me, did you?"

"How d'you know?"

"'Cuz you woulda given 'em my wallet." He grunts a laugh of his own. "You lied to me. I'm impressed."

All at once, the _everything_ seems to just sigh its way out of Leakee, who slumps his way over to the couch and sags down right into the middle of it. He's like a deflated balloon just landing wherever. "Just get your wallet and go."

Which sounds like a hell of a good plan, and all, but Mox takes another look around the apartment, and his mouth does that stray dog thing where it just runs away on its own. "Are you sick or something? Or like a hoarder? Is that…? 'Cuz I gotta tell ya, 's ain't normal. Like… Jesus Christ, Lay-ah-key, how do you even stand the smell in here? This place is a fucking health hazard."

His only answer is the _crack-hiss_ of a beer being opened. Leakee stares off at the TV, face blank and his eyes vacant. It's like he's just shut himself off or gone somewhere else. He's sitting there hunched over, a beer dangling between a couple fingers, a blanket wadded up by one hip and a pillow by the other.

"Suit yourself," Mox says. He picks his way toward the hallway, vaguely remembering the washer and dryer in a cubby about halfway down on the right. Not that he has to look very hard: the folding doors are open and the washer is kind of vomiting clothes everywhere, the lid propped open on a musty-ass towel. On top of the dryer, there's an overflowing plastic laundry basket. When Mox moves that thing aside, he breathes a sigh of relief to see his scuffed old leather wallet.

It's like finding a part of himself he's been missing or some sappy shit like that.

Or maybe it's like landing on Boardwalk when he's got Park Place already, and having enough cash to not only buy that shit, but start building houses.

Something cool like that.

 _Oh_ , the vodka's kicking in now, dragging him right into fearless buzz territory. The bottle is in the pocket where his wallet would normally be, so he swaps them and uncaps the bottle so he can take a big-ass drink. Something to wash the taste of this place out of his mouth.

He had boots here, he suddenly remembers, and he feels his way along the wall in the dark toward the back bedroom. A pawing hand finds the light switch and he's mildly surprised when a light actually does come on. He can't really remember this bedroom from before, but it's just a touch cleaner than the rest of the house, in that the only thing on the floor here is beer cans. There's no clothes, and the bed has been stripped of everything but the fitted sheet. The bathroom's off in the left corner, and Mox spies his boots sitting with their toes tucked under a dresser.

 _Bonus_.

He's just pushing things forward in his head so he doesn't have to think of those three fucking letters - and he knows it - but anything is better than fucking dwelling.

If there's any justice in the world, that motherfucker Greg is taking his last breaths somewhere in the city tonight. Nobody'll ever get raw-dogged by that guy's needle dick again.

H-motherfucking I-V will spell the end of Mox's in-ring career. It will kill it fucking dead.

And that sends strangling feeling of panic up into Mox's chest, some ugly tight fist that twists and twists and won't let go. Mox stumbles backward and sits down on the edge of the bed, lowering his forehead into one hand.

Suddenly he can't tell if his eyes are watering from the punch, the stench, or…

...something else.

But they don't stop.

They don't stop for a while.

_This can't be happening._

* * *

He's still there trying to stop cr-trying to stop his fucking eyes from watering so fucking much when he hears an annoyed, "The hell are you doing back here? I told you to…"

Leakee's words trail away, and Mox hastily swipes his forearm across his face, sniffling. "What?"

"You're crying?"

"What? No. I got… I got somethin' in my eye," Mox mutters at the carpet. "So much fuckin' dust in here. I don't fucking cry. I'm not a fucking baby."

"You were crying the night when you broke into my shop." Leakee heaves another big sigh. Seems to be a thing with him. "It's why I didn't call the cops. Were you serious about that HIV thing?"

Mox nods.  His whole face feels puffy, tight. "I gotta get tested in the morning."

"Rough," Leakee says, and his voice has this real careful to it that Mox knows well. It's the _I'm kinda drunk, but I'm trying not to sound like it_ sound.

"Yeah." He finally lifts his head and looks at Leakee. His left eye's all squinty and won't focus properly. It's starting to hurt like a bitch. But he can see Leakee. Dude looks like kid's toy with the battery all but run out. Shadows under his eyes. Sag in his shoulders. Like maybe one good stiff breeze might knock him over - which is saying a lot. Holding onto a beer for dear life. Not all that different from the way Mox is holding his vodka bottle. "What's your deal?"

"What do you care?" It's a quiet challenge, dark eyes finally meeting Mox's and holding there. "You bust into my store and you're such an asshole. All I wanted was for you to clean up the mess you made so I could open back up again. I haven't been able to."

"I told you I suck at cleaning up messes," Mox says, but it's maybe with a touch of apology. "So do you, apparently."

"It's none of your damn business."

"No." Mox unscrews the vodka's cap and takes a swig, wincing at the burn. "No, it ain't."

Leakee drains the rest of his beer, crumpling the can in his fist as he lowers it. "I should call the cops."

"Why didn't you? Not that I don't appreciate it, but you looked like you were about to."

"I was." Leakee drifts into the room and drops down onto the other side of the bed. "I don't know. You should leave."

"Actually," Mox says, taking another swig of vodka, "what I _should_ do is get drunk. That's what I really wanna do right now. I'm fuckin' sick and tired of this whole piece of shit day. I just wanna get really fuckin' stupid drunk tonight. Fuck everything. You know? Just fuck it. Fuck it."

"Fuck everything," Leakee murmurs.

"Wanna?"

"What?"

"Get drunk," Mox clarifies. "Like just _fuck everything_ royally stupid drunk. Want to?"

Leakee stares at Mox like Mox has lost his marbles or something. "I just want you to leave, Moxley. I don't… I don't like being around people. I don't like that you're in my apartment. It's my apartment. You shouldn't be here."

There's not much _force_ behind it, though, so Mox keeps pushing that button. It's what he's good at. "I know, but honestly, I got nowhere else to go right now. Mean, I could go back to where I've been crashing, but they're just gonna ride my ass 'cuz I don't have a job yet like I'm supposed to. They're all mad 'cuz I've been gone a lot. They don't know the shit that's been goin on. I don't wanna fuckin' tell 'em, either."

Jesus fucking Christ, he can just picture the look on Sami's face: that horrible cocktail of pity and anger. Like he feels sorry, but still wants to knock Mox's head off.

That's a thing Mox tends to bring out in people.

He's kinda pickin' up that vibe now in the way Leakee's bleary eyes narrow. "You told me."

"I don't actually give a shit what you think," Mox says matter-of-factly. It's pretty fucking mean, too, but he owes Leakee one for laughing about the garbage bag. That's fucking nightmare fuel and a half right there.

Instead of a Go Directly to Jail square on this fucked up Monopoly board, that's a fucking Go Straight to The Dump and Breathe in a Bag square.

"I just wanna drink somewhere in peace and quiet," Mox tries again. Not that this is anything like his ideal, but if he's as drunk as he wants to get, it's pretty much guaranteed he won't care. "I won't bother you. If you want, I'll stay back here and you won't even see me. I'll leave when I wake up. It'll be like I was never here. You know? Just a dream."

"You wouldn't help me clean up my shop," Leakee says, eyebrows pulled close together, "but you want me to just let you crash here? You got a set of balls on you."

Out of sheer habit, Mox grins and opens his mouth to fire back his standard response: _I sure do, wanna see_? He's done it a million times, but this time the words go sour in his mouth. There is literally zero chance that sex would happen here, but even so, the HIV axe looming over his head makes everything to to fucking vinegar. He heaves out a sigh of his own.

"Yeah," he says instead. "I'm fucking horrible at cleaning up messes. I just make 'em. And before you say it, so do you, so shut the fuck up. But I'll tell you what: on my way out tomorrow, I'll haul a couple trash bags out to the dumpster for you. Like a couple. Maybe even three, if I'm feeling generous. Help you out a little."

There's a pause, and Mox is honest-to-God shocked to see that Leakee is actually fucking _considering_ this ridiculous bullshit. This should not, in any way, shape, or form actually be a thing that is happening. Leakee should, by rights, be hauling Mox out by the scruff of his neck and throwing his cracked ass out on the landing.

But Leakee's considering it.

Guy honestly looks worn down and pretty much over everything, but he's _thinking_ about it.

_How the fuck...?_

"You go pick up all the trash you knocked over right now, Moxley," he finally says, rising. "Tomorrow you haul _all_ the garbage bags out before you go. _And_ before you leave, you go sweep up that pile of nails in my store. Just throw them away. Pick up my clothes. Do that, and you can stay. But you stay back here. Leave me the hell alone." He shakes his head. "You bother me or break anything else, I'll give you another shiner to match the one I already gave you. Then I'll call the cops."

 _No you won't,_ Mox thinks, but he has the sense not to say it aloud.

That would be stupid.

Against all odds, his ass just landed on Free Parking for the night, and he'd be a fucking moron to say anything.

"Fair enough," is what he says, and he feels like laughing his ass off because seriously, _what the fuck_? How did the fuck did this even _work_? "Got any gloves or anything? 'Cuz no fuckin' way I'm touching that trash bare-handed."

"Suck it up and deal," Leakee says on his way out of the room. "There's soap in the bathroom. It'll wash off. It's not that bad, anyway. Just a few beer cans. You'll survive."

Mox rolls to his feet and follows. "Okay, but if I get e-coli or somethin', I'm fuckin' suin' your ass."

"Be doin' me a favor if you did," Leakee says. There's more color on the walls than in his voice. His back is all slumpy and around, like his head's just too damn heavy to hold up suddenly.

"Why's that?" Mox challenges.

Somehow it's not much of a surprise when Leakee just walks over to the couch, sits down, and cracks open another beer.

Mox, surveying the minefield of beer cans on the floor around the front door, decides he doesn't care. Mostly he's just concentrating on taking the shallowest breaths humanly possible, and calculating the fastest way to get all these cans picked up - the way that'll involve the least amount of contact with his skin.

But for no reason at all, he looks over at Leakee staring away all empty-eyed at that TV and thinks about that sign downstairs.

( _CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE_.)

_Boy ain't that fuckin' right?_


	8. Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings needed for this one, really. Moving through their night.

**VIII. Chance**

Leakee is full of shit.

It's more than "just a few" beer cans littering the floor:

There's a whole party's worth of empty cans there, among the balled up bullshit food wrappers, paper plates, and used paper towels. It's gross, especially because some of the beer cans are wet with stale old beer and some of the paper towels are wet with something he really hopes is old coffee, but a deal's a deal.

Man of his word, and all.

He considers complaining again anyway just to try to get some reaction out of the lump of clay on the couch (it's kinda fuckin' creepy how _quiet_ Leakee is over there), but something tells him it'll be a waste of breath. Leakee's a fucking zombie. Lights on, nobody home. Probably doesn't have a fucking clue what he's watching on TV. Only signs of life are the two or three times he lifts his beer to gulp some down.

In his day, Mox has seen a few junkies get like this.

Mommy fucking dearest, for one.

More than once he came home to find her slack-jawed and vacant on the couch, blood crawling sluggish down around a needle in her arm.

 _Whatever_.

Not his fucking problem.

He gets all the trash around the door stowed back into the hellsack it came from, and ties the fucking thing shut so tight he could punt it and it wouldn't spill again. It goes into the pile with all the other crap he's gonna have to pack out of here like some fucking mule when he leaves in the morning.

"There," he says, holding his nasty fucking hands well away from himself. "All picked up."

Nothing.

Not a fuckin' peep.

Might as well be talking to himself. Leakee doesn't even _blink_.

"Well, you're fun," Mox mutters, turning for the hallway. He picks his way past all the crap on the floor and makes it into the back bedroom without injuring himself. From there it's a short walk to the grimy bathroom and - _thank fuck_ \- the bar of soap by the sink.

There's still blood on his knuckles, he realizes. His. Greg's. _Fuck_ , what he wouldn't give to be able to go back and make sure that ugly little light got snuffed all the way out. Stupid fucking sack of shit son-of-a-bitch. Scalding hot water takes the blood and everything else, but it doesn't touch the ache. Any of them. _That_ one is still throbbing - a literal pain in his ass - and-

Fist meets medicine chest mirror in a sudden, ugly collision.

Mox watches his reflection splinter into a few dozen little pieces.

His abused hand snarls at him in protest, the pain-flare down to his wrist sudden and jarring like someone walking up behind him and shouting. Mor blood seeps out of his skin, and he glares at it like it's contaminated toxic waste.

"You better not be," he mutters, thrusting the whole fucking thing under the water. "You better not. You just better fucking _not_."

It just throbs at him in response.

 _Fucker_.

Under the sink, he digs out an ancient box of big Band-aids, and he slaps several across his knuckles in case the they decide to leak again. That done, he gives the sink basin one more look to make it's blood-free. It is. So's the mirror he really doesn't feel bad about breaking.

He flips it off and watches dozens of tiny copies of himself do the same.

His vodka bottle's lying in the middle of the bed. He skirts around a wad of unwashed laundry on his way over to flop down beside it.

Free Parking for a night and a bottle of booze.

The fucking life right here.

He uncaps the bottle and takes a drink, closing his eyes at the familiar burn.

_Ain't it the fucking life, though?_

* * *

But here's the thing about Jon Moxley: he doesn't actually like to drink alone.

Never has.

He's not exactly Mr. Sociable, even on his best days, but when he's drinking, he likes to not be the only one in the room doing it. He likes to be around people who are having fun because that means he can cut loose, too, and nobody'll give him any shit about it. .

It's fucking boring, too, and tonight it comes with the added twist all the shit he just _does not_ want to have to think about anymore.

After maybe two more sips, he caps the bottle and drops it beside him. Digs out his cell phone. Old thing. Cheap shitty silver Tracfone. Just some knock-off Nokia - no flip, no frills. Screen's cracked on the edge, and there's another ugly crack in the back of it.

No messages, of course.

Nobody looking for him.

Not a surprise.

He lets his fingers wander over the numbers, and he ends up tapping a sequence of ten that he's been trying to forget since he left those dead Ohio skies behind. They're burned into his brain in the same way her face was on the day he told her he was leaving to chase his dreams in the ring. How skinny and sick she looked. The way it looked like water on dry leather when the tears rolled down her cheeks. The way her hair had been so thin and brittle it almost looked like a bad wig.

Despite everything, despite the years of neglect and bullshit, he still felt a stab of guilt when he got into his car and drove away from her.

She hadn't tried to stop him; she'd just told him to call sometimes as she'd reached for her cigarettes.

It's been over a year, and even though he's been back to Cincy to wrestle a few times since he left, he still hasn't called.

Bad memories and bitterness, like battery acid.

He doesn't exactly know what possesses him to push the green call button now, but he does.

He's sprawled out on a stranger's bed six hundred miles from the other end of the call, and he closes his eyes as he waits for it to connect.

Somehow he doubts she'll even answer - probably busy working her corner right now - but, to his surprise, she picks up on the third ring with a surprised, "Jon? Is that you?"

Her voice is wavery, tired, the words slow. He squeezes his eyes shut. "Yeah. Yeah, Mom. It's me."

"Jon, my God."

"...yeah." He doesn't know what else to say. He's twenty-three years old, and he doesn't even know what the fuck to say to his own mother.

"Where are you?" she asks, her voice clearing a little.

She doesn't sound like she's fucked up, he guesses. "Philly," he answers. "Still."

There's a pause. "Oh, that's right. Philly."

"Yeah." He throws his arm over his eyes. "Aunt Carol called me."

"She said." Again that pause, wide and awkward. "I'm staying with her now. I'm pretty sick."

Mox has the wildest urge to laugh. _So am I_. "She said you ODed."

"I've been clean since then," Mom says. She sounds almost like a hopeful little kid, like the kid Mox can remember being. Five, six. Before things got bad. He remembers showing her drawings, hoping she'd like them. "That's why I'm sick. Withdrawals. I'm in a program. There's a church. They're really nice people. I'm really trying this time. For real. You know? I don't want to feel like this anymore."

"...yeah."

"I wish you'd come home," she says then. "Stay for a while. I was just thinking about those board games we used to play when you were a kid. Remember? Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with a candlestick. Or, hey, remember when you got the flu when that one time and we played Monopoly for four days straight? Or what was the other one? Battleship? I think I still have them somewhere. You should come play a game or two with your mom one of these days. I miss that."

There's a part of Mox that wants to scream and rage at her that it's twelve years too late for her to play the nostalgia card with him. It's a handful of good memories in a sea of shitty ones. It's her own fault things fell apart. She put drugs and drinks and dickheads before her own kid, and _what the fuck_ did she think would happen when that kid was old enough to put his feet to the pavement and walk away from that shit?

That fucking battleship has _sunk_ , and it ain't coming back.

But there's a tiny part of him - probably the part that felt a little guilty when he'd left - that misses it, too.

Those times way before everything went to shit with her, and before and he found himself lying in some disgusting hovel, glass in his bones and the real possibility of his life changing for the worse hanging over his head like a fucking guillotine blade.

This was a mistake.

"I gotta go," he says abruptly. His eyes are fucking burning. All the fucking dust in the room.

"Do you have to, Jonny? I haven't even had a chance to ask you how you are."

"...yeah. Yeah, I gotta... I gotta go, Mom. I'll - later. Okay? I'll call you some other time."

He hangs up on her answer, and throws the phone onto the bed.

It was a fucking illusion, anyway. That handful of good memories didn't amount to dick stacked against all the rest. There's no going back to that time. No fucking games he could play that would fix any of this shit.

Why he thought calling her would be a good idea, he'll never know.

His eyes just burn and burn, so much they start watering again.

This fucking place.

* * *

When Mox gets tired of chasing his thoughts in the same old fucking circles, he grabs his vodka and braves the trek down the pitchy dark hallway. At some point, Leakee had shut off the overhead light, and had stretched back out on the couch, a light blanket pulled over him. There's a pair of beer cans near where his hand would be if he reached out under the blanket. More on the floor.

Some kind of movie on the TV.

Mox deliberately bumps into a garbage bag - not hard enough to upend it - but enough to at least let Leakee know he's here. Courteous motherfucker, and all.

Leakee briefly looks around, and then settles back down. "What?"

"Bored," Mox admits. "Drinkin' by my onesome back there just ain't as much fun as I thought it would be. Whatcha watchin?"

"Go 'way."

"Nah." There's nowhere else to sit in Leakee's living room - the arm chair is buried under a bunch of shit that it would a week to move - so Mox clears off some space on the floor near the end of the couch by Leakee's feet and drops the blanket he'd stolen off the bed down. It's some protection, at least. "I wanna watch, too."

His voice sounds a little snotty to him. His eyes are puffy and irritable, and his nose is sore.

He ignores it and takes a swig of vodka. Still about half a bottle, and he's a little buzzy, but not too bad - not yet. Nowhere near stupid fucking drunk, that's for sure.

On the TV, a car blows up. It's pretty spectacular, the way it flips ass over nose. Some well-built action star runs as fast as he can and dives down over some cowering woman just as the flaming wreckage sails over them. And, of course, when they both stand up, there's not speck of dirt on either of them.

"Oh, bullshit," Mox complains. "That's so fake. C'mon. They didn't even get and _soot_ on 'em."

"Quiet," Leakee growls.

"What, I like my action stars to get all dirty and at least look the part," Mox says. "Like, take Bruce Willis in _Die Hard_. Fuckin' dude _looked_ like somebody who'd been put through a wringer. You know? Feel got all cut to shit. He was dirty. Beat up. It was fuckin' great 'cuz it at least tried to be realistic. You really think neither one of them woulda caught on fire if this was real? Would've been fucking hilarious if they did."

His only answer is an annoyed sigh.

"You like this kinda shit?" Mox asks.

"'m watching it."

"True."

"Go back to the other room."

"No," Mox says again. He doesn't feel like he's any danger of losing his spot on Free Parking anymore because he doubts Leakee's gonna want to bother getting up to throw him out. "I'm _bored_. Drinking alone sucks ass. That's why I don't do it. What's your favorite movie? Like of all time. Like if you could only watch one movie for the rest of eternity, what would it be?"

Leakee lifts his head long enough to glare, the effects of which are pretty much diminished by how dark it is in the room. He's trying to glare, but Mox can't really see it. "I'm not playing this game."

"Why not?" Mox points at the TV, where the end credits have begun to roll. "Your movie's over. What else ya got to do? Like, me? _Die Hard_. Definitely _Die Hard_. I could watch that movie a billion times and not ever get sick of it. I probably have. I could quote the whole thing a million times. What about you?"

There's a wide gap of silence. It rolls almost as long as the movie's credits do. But eventually, Leakee sighs again and said, "Shit, I don't know. I don't know if it's my favorite, but I could watch _Shawshank_ like that."

"Good call," Mox says. "When I was a kid, I used to go over to a friend's house all the time to watch TV, and I swear to Christ that movie was playing every fuckin' day."

"Yeah." Leakee lays his head back down. "I used to watch it a lot."

Mox nods. "Okay, so _Shawshank_. If that's not your favorite movie, what is?"

"I don't have one," Leakee answers.

"Oh, bullshit. Everybody has a favorite movie."

"I don't."

"You're full of shit, Lay-ah-key." Mox chugs some more vodka. His head is buzzing pleasantly. "Full. Of. It. Everybody has a favorite movie. Or two. Or five. C'mon."

"If I tell you, will you shut up?"

"Nope," Mox laughs. "We're having a conversation. I'll ask you more questions."

"I don't want to answer questions," Leakee says stubbornly like the stubborn asshole he is. He even sits up all stubborn. "We're not having a conversation. I said you could stay here if you kept yourself in the bedroom. That doesn't mean you come out here and start bothering me. The hell is it with you and doing exactly the opposite of what I tell you to do?"

"'Cuz it's fun to wind you up."

"You're an asshole."

"Exactly."

Plus, it beats the shit out of sitting in the back dwelling on shit he can't do anything about until tomorrow, those sneaky bastards unwanted thoughts that refuse to leave him alone. This is better. It's something to focus on besides that.

On the TV, a commercial plays for the next movie, briefly lighting up the room in whites and yellows. Mox sees the way Leakee rolls his eyes. It's great. The big man says, " _The Godfather_."

"Which one?" Mox asks. "The first one? Or the second one?"

"The first one," Leakee says decisively. "The second one was really good, too, but I like the original the best."

"Nice. Always stick to the classic. Have you ever seen the third one?"

"No."

"Definitely not as good," Mox says. "I dunno what happened to Pacino, but his acting turned to shit at some point and it was like a completely different dude playing a different character. To me, anyway. I dunno. I just didn't really like it."

"I liked him in _Heat_ ," Leakee offers after a pause. "Pacino."

Mox smiles around another shot of vodka. _Fucking finally_. "Yeah," he says. "That was a good movie. I liked De Niro in it a lot. That character was fuckin' bad-ass."

"He was the bad guy," Leakee says.

"I know."

"You like the bad guys?"

"Let's just say I can relate," Mox shrugs. "I ain't exactly Mr. Nice Guy when I wrestle. You know?"

"Why am I not surprised?" Leakee mutters. He cracks open a beer and gulps a healthy mouthful.

The opening credits for one of the Jason Bourne movies starts to play. Mox leans back against the couch to watch. "I don't think I've seen this one."

" _Good_ ," Leakee says. "Then watch it _quietly_. No more conversation."

Unable to help himself, Mox twists back around to look at Leakee. The big man's broad face is nothing but frown lines and irritation. Beats the hell out of the slack zombie thing he was doing earlier, for sure, but it's still miles away from anything remotely friendly. Stands to reason, since Mox is kind of invading his space uninvited, but even so, there's closed off and there's _CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE_ , and holy shit is Leakee trying his best to keep himself boarded shut.

Another challenge.

This one, at least, probably won't end with him running down the alley in just a pair of wet underwear.

Probably.

Hopefully.

 _I'm gonna crack you, dude_ , he thinks, turning back around. _I'm gonna figure out your fuckin' deal.  
_

Because it turns the volume way down on the bullshit buzzing away in the back of his mind.

Because there's _something_ about this dude.

Because _why the fuck not_? It's fun.

He smiles to himself, rubbing his chin over a bandaged knuckle: _Game on_.

 _Game fucking on_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought. Comments are always appreciated.


	9. Stuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of this. Thanks for reading.

A/N: And we're back. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and read. Sorry about the gap in update. I've got some other stuff up on Archive of Our Own I've been working on. But here's more of this.

* * *

**IX.** **_Stuck_ **

Mox gives the movie five minutes to get interesting. Like five complete, whole minutes.

That's a long time.

The movie doesn't get interesting. It's just credits and people talking.

He chugs some more vodka, and feels very warm and very slow. His head starts to swim with it, like he's one one of those twirly playground rides. It's nice. "Yeah, this is boring. Tell me another movie y'like."

"No," Leakee grunts from under his blanket. "Be quiet."

" _Be quiet_ ," Mox mocks. "You're fucking boring. Stop being f-fucking boring. 'S big deal 'bout talkin' to me? Not like I'm gonna run 'round blabbin'. I don't do shit like that."

"I find that hard to believe," Leakee says. Hard to see where he's looking, dark as it is in the living room. "You got a big mouth."

"I _seem_ like I got a big mouth, but I don't. Mean, I do, kinda, 'cuz I can..." _get it around a pretty fat dick_. There's actually no need to say stuff like that tonight. For once. For once, he doesn't need to think about any of that shit. "I don't blab 'bout shit to people. 'S the big deal? Why don't you wanna talk? 'M not askin' for your life story. Don't gotta get all deep 'n shit. Just tell me a movie y'like. Like me, I like _The Rock_. That was a good one. Nic Cage? Y'ever see that one? Or _Gladiator_? Russell Crowe. Kinda bad-ass. 'M into action movies, mainly. I fuckin' love motorcycle chases 'n shit. Like in one of those _Matrix_ movies? Love that shit."

He stops. Waits. Drinks more.

Waits for the fucking door to crack open even an inch, for Leakee to move his pieces onto the board.

 _Play with me here, dude. C'mon_.

It takes like a whole week, seems like, but eventually Leakee sits up again, squeaky couch springs and his blanket hitting the floor by Mox's knee. Mox hears him sigh. Big man grabs the beer he'd abandoned on the coffee table and gulps more. Burps into a fist. "First _Matrix_ was okay," he finally says. Reluctant, but whatever. An answer's an answer. "I didn't really like the second two as much. I did like _Gladiator_ , though. _The Dark Knight_. I just saw that not too long ago."

"Oh, shit, yeah!" Mox laughs. "Fuck, that movie was _awesome_. I just saw it like a month ago."

"Let me guess," Leakee says, "you liked the Joker."

"Hell yeah, I did. Buddy of mine said I kinda remind him of the Joker sometimes when I'm doin' promos. I'm kinda like that, I guess. I don't really have a plan when I do shit. Just kinda wanna fuck shit up and see what happens. Kick over the anthill. 'S fun."

"Fun," Leakee snorts. He sounds like a bull. "So you like being an asshole."

"It puts asses in seats," Mox says. "People pay 'cuz they wanna see me get my ass kicked."

"I can see that." Leakee might actually have actually cracked a smile. "I might do that myself now that you mention it."

"Do. It's fun. We get the light tubes and shit goin'. Just beat the shit outta each other. It's a blast. I should be back in about a month." _Hopefully_. "Assumin' this testin' shit tomorrow goes okay, anyway." _Fuck_. "Okay, anyway, I gave you three movies. You gotta gimme two more."

Leakee shifts around so he's looking Mox's way more fully, and in the glow from the TV, Mox sees dark eyes narrow. "What happens if it doesn't?"

"What?"

"Your testing. What happens if it doesn't go okay?"

"Fucked if I know." Mox empties the rest of the bottle and stares at it mournfully. He can still think. There's _thoughts_ still bumping like bubbles in his head. Things still _hurt_. His ass. His hands. His squinty eye. Thing only wants to open halfway. It sucks. It all sucks. He heaves the bottle at one of the bags. It clatters to the floor. "I don't wanna talk about it. Gimme two more movies."

"Are you homeless?"

"What movie's that? _Are You Homeless?_ Who's innit? That like one of the _Home Alone_ movies, or what?"

"It's a question." Leakee clears his throat. "We're having a conversation. That's what you wanted, right? Are you homeless?"

Mox slumps against the side of the couch. Everything is doing a slow tilt-a-whirl spin around his head now. "Toldja I's stayin' with a buddy, didn't I? Sami. 'N his girl. Got a room. 'Cept they're prolly gonna rent it out. They need money 'n I didn't get a job. D'you like livin' like this?"

Another week of silence falls, stretched out like a rubber band being pulled to snapping point. Leakee opens another beer, mutters, "No," into the can. "Why didn't you get a job?"

Blinking owlishly up at him, Mox says, "'Cuz I just wanted to get fucked up 'n forget some shit." _Fucker Greg_. Better be dead. "'F you don't like livin' like this, how come you do?"

Leakee twists the can in his big paw, round and around. "I dunno, man. Can't seem to make myself do anything. What'd you wanna forget?"

"Everything," Mox answers honestly. "You sick?"

"No. 'D you really try to kill a guy?"

Mox flaps one bruised up, ripped-up hand. "Fucker had it comin. I told him not to. He did it anyway. Fucker. C'n I have a beer?"

"Is that your question?"

"No. I just want a beer. 'M outta vodka." His tongue feels like it's a size too big for his mouth, thick and slow and sluggish. Staticky fuzz in his head too, like someone had turned on a TV in his brain and left it on loud. But nothing hurts. "Quess- _question_ is, why not hire a cleaner?"

"Don't want anyone in here seein' this." Leakee digs a beer out of the box on the table, opens it, and passes it over. He grabs another one of his himself. Mox watches in something like awe as Leakee opens it and chugs the whole thing in a single go. The weak flickery light from the TV catches on the bit that spills out of the corner of Leakee's mouth. He swipes it off, grabs another beer, and chugs it, too. The empty can joins the eighteen or so on the table.

He doesn't ask a question.

Mox takes a drink of his own. It's lukewarm and pissy, but beer's beer. And he's aware in some still somewhat-functional part of himself that he's winning here, that he's managed to cracked open the Leakee-safe a little, he's managed to advance a square or two on the Leakee game board - like _challenge met, motherfucker_ \- but he's not _satisfied_ yet.

"'M in here," he declares, loud and sudden and belligerent. That drunk-spike thing his voice always does. "I see it."

Leakee's whole big body seems to flinch. But then he looks at Mox with blackhole eyes, and parrots Mox's own words from earlier back at him: "I don't actually give a shit what you think."

"'S good," Mox says. "You shouldn't. I ain't worth shit. But, like. Why's it like this?"

Another whole beer chugged. Leakee sways a little when he leans forward to drop the can on the table. "Why do you care?"

"'Cuz I can't figure you out. 'M _good_ at figurin' people out, but I can't figure you out. I don't get you. 'S like you're Professor Plum in the Library, but I dunno what weapon you used or why you did it. I don't _get_ you."

"I don't get me, either," is Leakee's rumble of an answer. Either the TV flickers across his face or something changes in his expression because it gets all pinched up. "I can take care of things. I was taking care of the store. I hate it, but I was doing it. I dunno why it's gotten so bad. I wasn't like this before. This-" he flaps a hand at the mess "-ain't me."

"Why do you hate it?"

He waits and waits and waits for an answer, but Leakee sits there staring at the floor like a lump of clay. A lump of clay with a scraggly beard and long messy hair and clothes dirtier than Mox's. And somewhere deep in the buzz and static, Mox thinks he might feel something - bad? - about this. Or sorry? Maybe. Like maybe he's trying to kick over an anthill he should've just left alone. He wants to know what makes this dude tick, wants to know what makes _everybody_ tick, but Leakee looks miserable all the way through.

Mox knows that look.

He's seen it on his own face in the mirror a time or a thousand lately.

Then Leakee digs another beer out of the back of a box and slams it. And another. Two empty cans rattle onto the floor. Leakee slumps onto his pillow. And maybe that's enough booze in him because he slurs, "I's playin' ball in Canada. Not great, but I was playing. The my uncle died. Left me the store. I didn't want it. Wanted to keep playing. Told my dad to sell it. He said if I don't keep it, I'm selfish and disrespecting my uncle. I don't want it. But I gotta. 'S family. Family's important. 'Cept they don't help 'cuz m'uncle did it on his own. So I gotta. Dunno why it's like this." He pulls his blanket around himself. "Don't wanna talk 'bout it. Watch the movie."

For probably the first time in his life, Mox actually keeps his mouth shut.

Even if the room wasn't making him feel like he'd gotten trapped inside a wash machine, he probably wouldn't even know what to say, anyway. Still doesn't make a lot of sense, but there's explosions on the screen and the day's starting to catch up to him. Or maybe it's whole bottle of vodka. Something. He's tired.

He won, though, kinda: cracked Leakee open just a little. Took a whole fuckin' case of beer, practically - and holy shit Mox might have actually met his drinking match in this guy, which is really fuckin' impressive - but he got there. Little tiny crack and a peek inside at something.

 _Something_.

He just doesn't know what.

Enough beers kill that thought, too.

* * *

And suddenly it's daytime again, little bars of light blaring in through slits in black-out curtains.

Throbbing bladder o'clock, and oh God, Mox doesn't want to move.

There are some really cruel ninjas with stars and swords and nunchucks using the inside of his skull as a practice dummy. Everything everywhere is just pound and squeeze and ache, old and new, and a mouth that tastes like dried roadkill. He wedged between a coffee table and a couch somewhere, facedown in something he really hopes is just his own drool.

It probably isn't.

A new day has begun.

* * *

Mox pulls himself like a wounded animal through making himself look less than dragged-behind-a-car than he feels. Leakee never even stirs, the lucky bastard, just lays there in his huddle on the couch and snores away like some fuckin' lumberjack buzzsawing through logs.

Some one-on-one time screaming into the porcelain megaphone, aspirin, and a scalding shower are a start, but what Mox needs more than anything is for it to be later today and him sippin' on a beer at Sami's with all this other bullshit fading in his rearview mirror.

Or coffee.

If he wasn't so afraid of contracting some horrible flesh-eating disease, he might have ventured into Leakee's kitchen to see if there is any.

Doubts there is.

"Jerk," Mox mutters at the sleeping bear on the couch.

He's got bugs under his skin right now, though, little chiggers or maybe just jitters or something, so coffee might not be the best idea. Probably shouldn't, anyway, if he's getting blood testing done or whatever the hell it is they're going to do to him.

H-motherfuckin'-I-V.

Just to be a dick, he considers not hauling out any of the trash bags, but then he remembers how sad-sack old Leakee was about it all last night - _I dunno why it's gotten so bad_ \- and decides maybe he can take ten minutes to toss all ten thousand trash bags into the dumpster on his way out. Go sweep the shit up in the shop. He can do that. He's not a complete asshole.

So he does.

He makes sure the giant black bags are tied shut tight, and hucks them down to the bottom of the landing, praying like hell the stinking things don't erupt into a garbage rainshower. 'Cuz he'll just have to pick it up, and _fuck that noise_.

Speaking of, the noise of Mox tossing all those heavy bags downstairs doesn't even wake Leakee up.

But just to be a dick, Mox slams the door on his way out.

He's pretty sure he hears the snoring continue anyway.

"Fucker," he says, chuckling.

Can't really be mad about that, considering Free Parking and all last night.

On his way out the back door, though, he nearly falls on his face because there's, like, a whole forest of boxes sitting on the concrete step. There's gotta be almost twenty of them, in a variety of sizes, and all with UPS labels addressed to the store here. Mox kicks one and it rattles like there's metal in it. He hunkers down - slow, because he's a little dizzy - and examines one label. It's from some tool warehouse somewhere.

Shit for the store, probably, he realizes.

And it won't do to leave it out where where it could get rained on or stolen, so before he hauls the trash out, he carries the boxes in and sets them over behind the counter, where they're out of the way. Be his luck to fucking trip on one of them if he left them anywhere else. As it is, he's lucky he didn't face-plant off the concrete porch. He's already bruise-ugly right now. Doesn't need anymore decorations.

Takes him maybe twenty minutes to get the bags in the dumpster and the nails swept up like Leakee wanted, and the whole time he's doing his best not to vibrate out of his skin with the nerves.

He doesn't think he was this uptight before his first wrestling match.

And he was pretty fucking amped that day.

When he's got all Leakee's shit cleaned up, he lets himself out of the back door. Doesn't lock it. Figures maybe if he gets back around this way someday, he'll pop by.

'Cuz even if he cracked Leakee open a little, it doesn't feel like he really won anything yet.

Got a feeling he's not done with Leakee yet.

Not yet.

But for now, Mox has gotta go see if the guillotine blade over his head is gonna fall or not.

* * *

It's the world's worst walk of shame, heading into the free clinic.

He can't even look the receptionist in the eye. Just stares at the desk, mutters his name, and says the five words as fast as he can: "IneedanHIVtest."

There's only a couple people in the lobby ahead of him, but it seems like it takes a fucking year before he hears his name called. He sits in an uncomfortable, hard chair and stares at the covers of ten out-of-date magazines, fidgets. He's sure he looks like a junkie having withdrawals, the way he keeps scratching at his shoulder and tapping his foot, but he's never been good at waiting.

Finally, after he's about clawed himself open, they let him back into a room.

Just a tiny little cube. Illustrations of bodies in the wall. Raised bed-thing in the middle with its standard white paper sheet cover. Two chairs. A window covered by some old blinds. Counter with tongue depressors and cotton balls in clear containers. Antiseptic smell.

Fuck, he hates places like this.

His bones feel like they want to break out of his skin. The ninjas flail away at the inside of his head. He takes a breath. Two.

There's a knock, and finally somebody comes in. Youngish dude, lean and tired-looking. Lab coat two sizes too big for his arms and his ears about a size too small for his head. Nurse practitioner or PA or one of those not-quite-a-doctor people you get in places like this. They usually know their shit, though, so it's all the same to Mox.

Guy's all elbows and knees, and knocks into the bed when he sits down on a stool. Sets an inch-thick stack of pamphlets down in the empty chair next to Mox. First one says _HIV Transmission Facts and Myths_.

Mox honest-to-God wants to punch somebody.

At least the guy doesn't dick around. "I'm Matt," he says. "And you're Jon Moxley? Can you tell me your date of birth?" After Mox does, Matt looks down at his notes. "HIV test, huh? Before we do that, I need to ask you a few questions. Standard stuff. Just answer as truthfully as you can."

"Shoot," Mox says, impatient. If he had any fingernails left...well, he wouldn't have any fingernails left.

"How were you exposed?"

"Unprotected sex," Mox tells the floor.

"How long ago?"

"Uh, shit." Mox digs through the patchwork mess of memories he's got for the last two weeks, and tries to find something to anchor him at a specific time. Draws a blank. "Week, ten days ago, maybe. I don't know for sure. But there was another time after that that was like a few days ago. I just found out yesterday the dude might have had it."

"Do you know for sure if he did?"

"No. I just - that's what I heard somebody say. Figured I'd better get in. Better safe 'n sorry."

"Very true," the Matt guy says. "It's good that you did, but, unfortunately, if it's only been about ten days, we can't actually test you."

Mox shakes his hair out of his eyes, an impatient flick. Glares at the guy. "Why the fuck not?"

"It takes a while for the virus to become detectable in your body," is the calm answer. "Even the most expensive, sophisticated tests - which we don't offer here - need around ten to twelve days before they can pick it up. The tests we use can pick it up starting around three to four _weeks_. But in some people, it takes even longer for the virus to become concentrated enough that the tests pick it up. So we can test you here in two or three weeks, but if the results come back negative, that doesn't mean you _are_ negative. We'd want to test you six to eight after that. Then again another two to three months after that, just to be on the safe side. If you're negative after five to six months, then you're in the clear."

The bottom falls out of Mox's stomach, just drops like a fucking stone. " _Months_?"

"Unfortunately, yeah," he says with what's probably supposed to be a sympathetic smile. "Really, the odds of you turning up positive after four months of negative tests are extremely low. But even so, it's still better to give it the full five to six."

_Months._

_Fucking. Months_

"I wrestle for a living," Mox says. His mouth is numb, like he's just been injected with Novocain. _Months_. "Like, pro wrestling. There's glass and barbed and wire and shit. Kinda gets bloody. That's what I do. Could I still...?"

"Absolutely out of the question," the Matt guy says without a scrap of hesitation. "It's actually a felony to knowingly expose somebody to HIV. You can still transmit it in this window period. If you were to get cut open and your blood got in someone's cuts, they could get it. Until you know you're negative, you're going to have to avoid putting yourself in those situations."

_Months._

Months of no wrestling.

Months of not being able to get his name out there, of being forgotten, of not being able to do _shit_ after he'd _just_ gotten himself back in the game and gotten noticed.

"Un-fucking- _real_."

"I'm sorry," Matt says. "I wish I had better news. That's just kind of how it goes with this stuff. Until you know for sure you're negative, you're potentially putting people at risk if they come into contact with your blood. Or your semen. I've got some pamphlets here for you to take. This is all good information about ways HIV is and isn't transmitted. Precautions you can take. Safer ways to have sex. Also..."

The guy keeps talking, but it's like listening to an adult in a Peanuts cartoon talk for all Mox can focus on any of it, just _wah-wah-wah_.

 _Months_.

This guillotine blade is going to be hanging over his head for a long fucking time.

He stumbles out of the clinic and its antiseptic cool, and comes to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk, everything pounding all over, his blackened eye and his throbbing asshole having a loud argument with his head, and he doesn't have a fucking clue what to do.

None at all.

_Months._

Months of not being able to do the only fucking thing he's ever given a shit about or been good at.

Fucking useless stupid _waiting._

He wants to howl, but his throat's fucking locked.  His eyes are burning.  Something in them, maybe,

And he needs to get away.

Somewhere. Anywhere. Just fucking _away_.

So he puts his head down and charges off down the sidewalk, not knowing where he's going.

Just goes.

_Fuckyou fucker. Fuckyou fuckyou fuckyou._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tend to research a lot when I write, and I'm trying to keep this as factually accurate as I can. From what I've learned, it actually does take a few weeks before most HIV tests can work. So, that's not me trying to prolong drama. It's just kind of how life is. But any mistakes or inaccuracies are mine and I will own 'em. I'm not a doctor or anything like that.


	10. Freefall

**X. Freefall**

_Six months_.

_I can't wrestle._

_Six months._

_I can't wrestle_.

Over and over again, a rhythm beating the inside of his brain in time to his heart trying to beat a hole in his goddamn chest. No amount of running carries him away from it.

He tries.

He runs - sprints, _flies_ \- until he's on fire inside, until his breath's snuffed down to wheezing gasps, until his side's a dull band of fire, until he wants to throw up again, and it's still. not. _enough_. No matter how fast he goes, those stupid fucking thoughts nip at his heels like the fucking hellhounds they are.

_What am I gonna do_?

It's not 'til he rounds a corner and nearly skids into a parked car that he even looks up to see where the fuck he is. He sags down on a patch of browning grass, and wheezes out a croak of a laugh: Sami's apartment building is a half-block up from here. No signs of Sami's rustbucket car in the lot, at least, which means Sami - and probably Chrissy - are at work.

They are.

Mox drags his sweaty, hung-over ass up into the apartment, huffing and puffing the whole way, and lets himself into the silent living room. "'Lo?" he calls out.

When nobody answers, he breathes out a quiet sigh of relief, and heads into the kitchen for a glass of water.

Glass in hand, he wanders out into the apartment again, back through the living room, and into the spare bedroom.

Which has stuff in it now that he's, like, a hundred percent positive wasn't in there yesterday: a made bed and a small chest of drawers, in addition to the computer desk. His little collection of boxes, which had been here yesterday, isn't here now. The suitcase and bags he finds in the closet aren't his.

_Am I in the wrong apartment again?_

He leaves the living room, and - no. No, this is Sami's place, all right. It's his mail on the table.

"Where the fuck is my shit?" he asks the lumpy brown couch.

Right about then, he spots a piece of paper on the dining table. He'd walked right past them both on his way to the kitchen.

That piece of paper has his name at the top in big, Sharpied letters.

" _MOX,_

_Turn your phone on dickhead._ _Why was Danny calling me looking for you? What happened party? He was freaked out. Your shit is in hall closet. Chrissys friend needs a place to stay & has $$. You can have couch til you find somewhere else. Sorry about that man. No rush. Call me._

_Sami"_

'Til he finds somewhere else.

In other words: _Get lost, asshole_. _Scam. Beat it_. _Tired of your ugly mug_.

When Sami says something like "no rush," he almost always means the opposite.

Mox sets the letter down, lowers his head, and laughs. _Laughs_. Because why the fuck not. Why the fuck wouldn't Sami and Chrissy kick him out? Why wouldn't they? He doesn't have a fucking job. He's flat-ass fucking broke, so he can't contribute anything. All he does lately is get drunk and get into trouble. He doesn't even have a fucking wrestling career right now - and may never again. So why wouldn't he get kicked out of here? It's _hilarious_. The fucking joke of the universe.

_You sunk my fucking battleship._

No, he doesn't blame Sami or Chrissy a bit. They've been generous. They didn't have to let him crash on their floor here. He's paid for what he could along the way, especially back when he was tending bar during the week, but they never bitched at him when he couldn't kick in much. He's basically been living here for free for the last couple months, since the job situation got tight and promoters weren't paying out a lot for shows. It's tough as shit all over. Sami and Chrissy are doing what they have to do to keep their heads above water.

He can't be mad about that.

Hell, he respects that.

They don't owe him shit.

Nobody owes him shit - not promoters, not his friends, not even his own fucking _mother_.

He has well and truly fucked himself here.

Sami and Chrissy would probably let him stay if he told them about the HIV thing, but he's not sure he can stomach living off their fucking pity. Because they would feel sorry for him. Sorry son-of-a-bitch. That's Jon fucking Moxley.

Still giggling - he's sure he sounds about out of his fucking mind right now - he sits down at the table, grabs his phone out of his pocket, and turns it on, _dickhead_. There's a whole flood of missed calls. Like eight from Danny, the guy who'd had the party last night. A couple from other CZW guys. Six from Sami. One from his mom. She'd left a voicemail, which he deletes without even opening.

Probably just wants him to come home, which, "Fuck you," he mutters the screen.

Sweat runs freely down his face, stinging into the little cut Leakee had opened above that left eyebrow last night. Fucking shiner and a half right there. Big fucking fist left a big fucking bruise. Everything's still kind of fuzzy out of that eye. His hand hurts, too, so bad he can't close his fingers around his phone. Painful even turning his wrist over to hold the thing. Probably damaged it even more pummeling Greg's face to mush.

Speaking of.

Mox hits 'redial' on one of Danny's many calls and puts his phone to his ear. Havoc's another CZW guy. Not a close friend, but somebody Mox has wrestled quite a few times the last couple years. Decent wrestler. Okay guy. Fun to party with.

He picks up after the second ring with a groggy, "Yo."

"It's Mox, Danny. Heard you're looking for me."

"Mox? Yeah, man. Fuck. I was. Hang on." Danny clears his throat. Just woke up, probably. Sounds like there's a quarry of gravel in his voice. "Shit, dude. Thanks for stickin' me with a fucking mess."

"He dead?" Mox asks.

"Greg? No. He wasn't, anyway, when we dumped him off at the ER. We literally just kicked him out of my car and drove off. Haven't heard anything since. Man, you really fucked him up."

There's a clock on the wall above the TV. Black cat. The tail ticks and tocks back and forth every second. Mox watches it twitch and twitch. "Where is he?"

Danny's pause on the other end of the line feels uncomfortable. "We dumped him at St. Mary's. Why?"

"No reason."

"Look, dude," Danny says, slow and careful, "like. There's some rumors. I heard some shit. If it's true, like, I don't blame you for flipping out like you did. But you already did enough. And there's something else, anyway. You heard he's got HIV, right? Some people were saying that. That's why I'm looking for you. If - like, I don't wanna get into your business, dude, but if what I heard was true, you oughtta get tested. That shit ain't nothing to fuck around with. 'Cuz in the ring and shit, if you get cut-"

"Yeah, I know," Mox says. "I'm already on it. I get to not wrestle for six fucking months 'til they can tell me for sure I'm negative. Or I show up positive. That's how fucking _on top of it_ I already am. So don't fucking worry about it. I ain't gonna go spreadin' shit around to you guys. Jesus. Fuck kinda monster do you think I am?"

"I wasn't saying-"

"The fuck you weren't. I'll do a lot of shitty things to people, but I'd never do something like that. Fuck off. I gotta go. Keep this shit to yourself."

Mox hangs up before Danny can answer, and massages his aching temples.

_Six months._

_I can't wrestle._

_Six months._

_I can't wrestle._

* * *

Fuck only knows what possesses him to go back to Leakee's.

Glutton for punishment, probably.

The smart thing to do, honestly, would have been to stay at Sami's, and just hash everything out with Sami and Chrissy. Pity or no, they'd be less apt to rush his ass out the door if they knew, and he'd have a chance to get his shit together and figure out his next move. He could start looking for some job or whatever to get him by, maybe, or something.

He's not feeling smart.

He's feeling the brand new bottle of Jack Daniels Sami'd hidden in the cupboard above the refrigerator, and a whole heaping helping of not thinking about anything.

He's feeling like sobriety is for suckers, and that Jon Moxley ain't a goddamn sucker.

Jon Moxley has a few days' clothes and his toiletries stuffed into a backpack that's being held together by duct tape and a prayer, plus the bottle of Jack and a bag of sunflower seeds. Other than that, he doesn't have a fucking clue what he's doing.

No money, no job, nothing on his horizons except a whole lot of hurry up and wait.

It's freefall.

It's stepping off the ledge without a safety net.

It's stupid, is what it is, and Mox isn't stupid - or deluded - enough to think it's not, but he's never done anything easy in his life, and why the fuck should he start now?

He doesn't go directly to Leakee's place; he takes a couple trips around the old Monopoly board first, making a few phone calls to people he knows with stretches of carpet or a couch to spare. One doesn't answer his call, and neither one of the other two can spare the room right now, sorry man. Sorry 'bout that. So sorry.

So fucking _sorry_.

_Fuckyou fuckers_.

They don't owe him shit, either, honestly.

For a while, he sits under a tree in a near-empty park and wonders what it might be like to choose to sleep out here - and not just pass out somewhere like this at three a.m. in an alcohol stupor. He wonders how people without a pot to piss in even get by. How they eat. Where they go when it's raining. He wonders what it's like to have to beg for real, to sit out on some corner and get spit on and glared at, looked at like a fucking piece shit useless dog. To have to sell yourself not to get out of trouble, but to just afford a deck of smokes or some booze or a fucking cheeseburger or even a place to sleep for a night.

Wonders what it might be like to be that way and be _sick_ on top of that.

H-motherfucking-I-V.

The bullet in the blood.

Dying by inches, just like his mother.

Horrified anger burns its way up his spine because _I'm not her, I'm not her, fuck that_.

" _Fuck_ that," he mutters, shoving to his feet. He ain't that far down yet. He ain't fucking _dead_ yet.

_Pull yourself together, asshole_.

Jon Moxley in the park with the melodramatic fuckin' meltdown.

"Fuckin' drama queen." He wants to slap himself. "Pull it together, asshole."

His feet carry him to Leakee's on their own. He doesn't tell them to go that way. They just do it, like they took him to Sami's place earlier, like they're walking in a familiar groove. Like they took him there last night after that bullshit with Greg, which-

Paying that fucker a visit in the hospital is probably a terrible fucking idea, but it's also tempting.

But.

Three hours after he leaves Sami's place, he's back over at Leakee's hardware store, staring up at the big blue and white sign overhead, declaring the place 34th Street Hardware. The boarded-over window. The hand-lettered CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE sign screaming in read through the door. The stack of boxes peeking out from behind the counter.

Around the side of the building, there's the dumpsters that are overflowing with the trashbags Mox had dumped there this morning. More boxes on the back stoop, too. Just a couple this time, about the size of a couple shoeboxes.

He'd left the back door unlocked this morning, he remembers, and lets himself right in like he's got every right to be there. But, hell, looks like it might rain today, all these heavy gray clouds piled up against the sky, and he'd be an asshole if he left those boxes sitting outside to get soaked, now wouldn't he? Not that it's his problem, and not that he's not an asshole, but even assholes can do the right things sometimes. So he carries the two boxes into the store and sets them down behind the counter with the rest. Looks like some kind of weird Jenga stack going on there.

The door slams shut behind him, a flat, loud bang that echoes through the store and probably up the staircase to Leakee's apartment.

Mox takes a seat behind the counter, sets his backpack down, and pulls a trashcan closer. He doesn't have any cigarettes left. Sunflower seeds are a poor fucking substitute for that nicotine hit he wants, but they'll have to do in the meantime. He grabs the Jack, too. Booze is a good distraction.

After the way the door slams, he's not all that surprised to hear the stairs creaking and groaning under heavy footsteps.

Leakee appears around the corner, large and ghostly-silent, a baseball bat in hand.

Mox pops a handful of seeds into his mouth and pushes them into one cheek, relishing the salt-sting. He cracks one between his teeth, and looks around. "'S up, Babe Ruth? Gonna knock my head for a home run?"

Big man makes his way over to the counter, an angry brick wall of a guy in the same rumpled hoodie and shorts as he'd been wearing yesterday. It doesn't look like he'd showered yet today. There's actually a red mark on his face from a blanket or something, and his hair's all matted. He's still intimidating as hell, even when he lowers the bat and growls, "Why do you keep coming back here, Moxley?"

"You had some boxes on your back porch," Mox says, indicating the Jenga stack. "I brought 'em in 'cuz might rain today. Didn't know where you wanted 'em though, and I didn't open 'em 'cuz I figured you'd wanna do that yourself."

He's gotten good, Mox has, at sliding under people's skin by saying the least-expected things and the most unexpected times. Now's no different. He manages to derail Leakee's anger and sending it shooting off toward confusion. It's great. "...okay?"

"So I figure since I did that, I could come back and hang out again." He frees the Jack Daniels from his backpack and holds it up. "I even brought some good shit 'cuz I'm a good guest. Never show up empty-handed."

"You need to leave, Moxley. I'm serious. You can't..." Leakee paws his face with a thick hand, closes his eyes. "You can't be here. I don't want you here."

"So how's your day been?" Mox asks, spitting out a few empty shells into the trash. "Good? Done much? You look like you've been busy. Wanna know how my day's been?"

"Not really."

Ignoring that, Mox pulls the stack of HIV pamphlets out of his hoodie's pocket and drops them on the counter. "So I go to this clinic to get tested this morning, right? They say they can't, 'cuz it hasn't been long enough since I was exposed. Then they tell me not only do I gotta wait a couple weeks, but it's gonna be six months 'til I'll really know if I'm negative or not. Can't wrestle, either. Can't risk exposing people to it. That's a felony. Wish somebody woulda told the fuck who exposed me. But you wanna know the biggest kick in the balls? I kinda just got booted from the place I'm staying. If you ask me, the last few weeks have been pretty bullshit."

"And what?" Leakee demands, leaning on the baseball bat like it's a cane. It looks like a toothpick next to his leg. "You expect me to feel sorry for you?"

"Fuck no," Mox says. "I don't need pity. That's why I like you. You don't feel sorry for me."

"You _like_ me?" Leakee doesn't look impressed. "You don't even know me." Something shifts in his expression, like a lightbulb going off. "You need a place to crash, don't you. No. _Hell_ no."

"I brought booze," Mox says. He's in it now. Might as well jump in with both feet. "It's not like I showed up empty-handed. We could have fun."

Leakee points the bat at the back door. "Leave."

"Oh, come on, it's about to rain." It's dusk-dark outside and a breeze has begun to stir the air. Definitely a storm coming. "I carried in your boxes. You didn't even ask me to. I think that entitles me to, like, at least another night."

It's a totally bullshit, totally outrageous claim, and he knows it. There's a part of him that can't even believe he's trying this - again. The rest is laughing with weird, childish glee. He can _see_ the outrage in Leakee's eyes, in the way Leakee opens and closes his mouth a few times. "You have got to be kidding me."

"What? That was a lot of boxes to move, man. They'd, like, overrun your porch. I stacked 'em all pretty and everything. Broke a real sweat and everything."

"It - what...? _Moxley_."

"Please?" Mox tries. It's not a word he says often, and it tastes weird. Chalky. "I could - I mean, I guess I could help you out with stuff, if you want. Like. I'm fucking useless at cleaning up messes, but I can move shit around. Like those boxes? I could put 'em somewhere else. Or whatever. I dunno. I really just wanna get drunk. Being sober is fucking stupid. You know?"

"Yeah." Leakee shakes his head, leans against the counter. "Would you actually work? Or would you just ignore me and do whatever you wanted?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"What I asked you to two damn weeks ago: help me get the store cleaned up and back open. Plus, I got a whole other back room full of stuff that needs organized. There's a lot needs done around here." A muscle bunches in Leakee's jaw. "It's more than one person can do. But I know you and I know your stubborn ass is just gonna not do anything I ask, so just go. Get out of here, Moxley. I don't want you here, anyway."

Mox dumps another handful of seeds into his mouth. "I'm still not hearing what you want me to do. Want me to move these boxes, or what?"

He's done worse in his life for less.

(" _Trespassing again, eh? Tell you what, Moxley. I'll let you off if you get down on your knees and suck my dick real good. How about that, eh? Get down on your knees like a pretty little bitch and suck my dick. Then you're free to go._ ")

Moving a few boxes or whatever, that ain't shit.

At least Leakee doesn't look like he feels sorry for him.

But Leakee doesn't look convinced, the stony motherfucker. "They go in the back room. "

Twisting around in the stool, Mox looks at a pair of closed doors. "Straight or to the right?"

"Straight," Leakee says, wary. "The bathroom's the door on the right. There's a table to the left. That's where all the new stuff goes until it's checked in."

"'Kay." Mox slides down off the stool and hefts a couple of the smaller boxes up into his arms, carries them down a narrow hall, and pauses to paw at the handle to the door.

Which opens into a big, dusty storage-type room. Concrete floor with lots of shelves built around the edges. In the open area in the middle, there are several small mountains of boxes, mostly unopened like the ones Mox has in his hands. They're grouped by size or something. It's not total chaos. But the boxes on the shelves look pretty dusty. Everything has this general air of not having been used for a while.

To his left, Mox spots a battered table that's as overrun with boxes as the back porch had been.

"Just set them on the floor," Leakee says from behind Mox. He's got a couple boxes in hand, too. "I haven't had a chance to go through all this stuff yet. Are you-? Moxley, I told you I just want you to leave."

Mox sets the boxes down next to the table's leg and turns to look at Leakee, who suddenly seems about as hangover-tired as Mox feels. "Look, dude, I don't know what your damage is, but, like, 's pretty clear you got somethin' up. You need a hand around here. I need a place to crash for a while. I mean, I ain't gonna promise you I won't be an asshole - that's kinda my thing - and I won't promise I'll do everything you want, but we could help each other out here."

The big man drops his own boxes on the floor, folds his arms over his chest. Stony motherfucker. Mox thought he was stubborn, but Leakee might just have him beat in the _dig your heels in_ sweepstakes. "You didn't want to help me out when you made the mess and it was the right thing to do, but when you need something, _now_ you want to help me out. That's rich. You are unbelievable, Moxley."

"Yeah." Mox locates another trash can - this one overflowing with bags and cardboard - and spits out all the empty shells. He needs a smoke. "I'm somethin', all right. 'S that a yes, then?"

"I don't want you in my space, man."

"I can stay down here." Mox indicates the room. "I've stayed in worse. I think I woke up buck-ass naked next to a dumpster last week. So, hey, at least there's a roof and walls. Probably have to borrow some blankets and shit, but I could make this work."

He bites the inside of his cheek at the way Leakee literally throws his hands up. "I'm gonna go take a damn shower. Move all the boxes back here and I guess come upstairs when you're done. We'll figure something out."

"Can that something involve getting drunk?" Mox asks hopefully. "Today, I mean. Today's already complete bullshit, anyway. It's - fuck today, y'know?"

"Got that right," Leakee mutters. "Just put the boxes away and come upstairs."

This time, Mox has to bite his lip to keep from busting up. How the fuck he keeps getting away with this shit, he has no idea. "Hey, Leakee?"

Leakee pauses in the door. "What?"

"Thanks."

He swears he sees a ghost of a smile tug up Leakee's mouth. It might be a shadow, but maybe not. It's nice, either way. "Shut the hell up, Moxley."

"Never," Mox says, grinning.

He watches Leakee lumber away down the hall, and manages to hold off laughing until he hears the stairs creaking again. He collapses against the side of the table, practically howling with it, out of his fucking mind with it, because working once was bad enough, but working twice two days in a row? _What the fuck._ Honestly.

It probably isn't even gonna work out. Probably. He's sure Leakee'll probably change his mind or something after his shower, but even so.

_What the fuck._


	11. Freeze

**XI. Freeze  
**

When Leakee finally makes his way out of the back bedroom, Mox does a double-take.

He can't decide if it's the dark-rimmed glasses, the way Leakee'd pulled his hair back off his face, or the trimmed goatee, but something's made Leakee jump from 'not bad-looking' to 'kinda hot, actually.' Leakee had put on jeans, a baggy football jersey, and sneakers, too.

Leakee narrows his eyes after an awkward beat of silence. "What?"

"What?" Mox nearly falls off the arm of the couch - the only spot in this dump he'd deemed safe enough to sit on - in his haste to look away. "Nothing. What?"

"Oh-kay." Leakee crosses the filthy living room and heads over to lean back against the front door. Big arms fold over a broad chest. "So what'd you do to get yourself kicked out of your other place?"

Mox glares. "That's a shitty way of puttin' it. I didn't do anything. It was a money thing. My buddy 'n his girl, they're both working but money's tight. I don't have any right now. They're lettin' a friend of theirs who does move in. That's all it was."

"Huh," Leakee grunts. "I can't believe I'm actually thinking about letting you stay here, but something I gotta know first. Don't lie to me, either. You a drug addict?"

"No."

"That better be the truth, because I don't want that crap around here."

"I said I'm not," Mox says, waspish and annoyed. It's about all he can do not to kick the mount of crusty paper plates off the coffee table. Shit stinks like stale ketchup and mustard. He curls his lip at it. "I left that shit behind years ago. You can't fuck around with that shit if you wanna make it wrestling, man. I don't fucking do drugs, period. I just drink. That's all I do."

"All right, fine," Leakee says. "Here's the deal. You can stay, but no parties, no drugs, nobody comes over here. This is my place and I don't want anyone here. Period. You steal anything from me, you're gone. I ask you to do something, and you wanna screw around like you did before, you're gone. Don't get comfortable, either. Long as you help out, you can stay for a while, but your butt better be looking for somewhere else to go. This ain't a charity. Understood?"

There's a part of Mox that wants to tell Leakee to pull the stick out of his ass and lighten the hell up, but for once in his life, he manages to stop his mouth from running with that. "Got it," he says instead. "'M I gonna stay downstairs then, or...?"

Big man shakes his head. "Up here. There's another bedroom. Got a bed and everything in it already. It just needs cleaned out. You do that, you can stay there. But so we're clear: if I tell you to leave me alone, you leave me alone. I don't give a damn how bored you are. If I don't want to talk, I'm not gonna talk."

CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

 _Jesus_.

"Have it your way," Mox says, flicking his hair off his forehead. He's run into brick walls that are more yielding that this guy. "Anything else? 'Cuz I really just wanna get drunk today."

"I need to go to the store," Leakee tells him. "I'm out of beer and there's nothing here to eat."

"I'm not stopping you." Mox slides down off the arm of the couch, careful to avoid stepping on a napkin that'd fluttered to the floor when Leakee walked by. "I'll go clean that bedroom up or whatever."

Leakee doesn't move away from the door. "Actually, uh. You oughtta tag along."

Now it's Mox who throws up his hands. "Jesus _fuck_ , dude, I'm not gonna steal your shit. Might be a prick, but I'm not a fucking thief." The bottle of JD sitting on the edge of the coffee table says otherwise, probably, but what's a bottle of booze between friends? "There's nothing here worth stealing, anyway."

"That wasn't what I meant," Leakee says, and his eyes are all clouded over behind their lenses, eyebrows pulled together again. "I don't know what you like. And if you need toothpaste or soap or anything, we could grab that, too."

Mox closes his mouth with a snap. From indignant to a complete asshole so fast it's a wonder he doesn't get whiplash. Weird heat warms his cheeks. "Fuck," he mutters, standing. "Sorry. Yeah. I'll come."

He follows Leakee out of the apartment and into a warm early afternoon. Even in the alley, the air's a lot fresher than in the apartment, and Mox takes a second or two to just appreciate that. And appreciate that he doesn't have to step over a whole mountain of boxes on the back steps.

There's a black SUV Mox hadn't noticed before parked off to the left, right up tight to the building, and it's there Leakee goes. Mox climbs into the passenger seat, pleasantly surprised to find that, aside from being a little dusty on the dashboard, the vehicle is pretty clean.

As soon as they're on their way, Leakee turns on the radio, classic rock cutting through all the quiet.

Mox slouches back in his seat, content for once not to say anything.

To just slow down and catch his fucking breath.

Feels like all he's done for the last two weeks is sprint through a fucking obstacle course backward and blindfolded through a goddamn squall. Improbably, he might have found himself a place to land for a little while - Free Parking, again - and maybe it's only for now, but it's something.

A start, maybe.

Leakee pulls them into the relatively empty parking lot of a grocery store, but rolls to a stop well before he actually gets to any of the parking spaces. He kind of looks around at the cars, and doesn't drive any closer.

"What's the matter?" Mox asks, frowning.

"Kinda crowded, huh?" Leakee says, licking his lips. "I didn't even think about that. I usually come at night."

"Uh." Confused, Mox looks the parking lot. "Doesn't look very crowded to me, dude. Plenty of spots open." He points to one right next to a shopping cart caddy, where no other cars are parked. "There's one right there. We're kinda blocking the way here."

There's a car behind them. Leakee starts and hits the gas. The SUV lurches forward up the row until it reaches the spot Mox had pointed out. Big guy jerks it into the parking spot and kills the engine, and hesitates for what seems like fifteen years before he undoes his seatbelt.

By the time he does, Mox has already gotten out and walked around to the driver's side.

Once Leakee's out, he looks around the parking lot and wipes his hands on his jeans.

Figuring everything's fine, Mox starts for the store's entrance, only to stop a few seconds later when he realizes Leakee's not with him. Leakee'd gotten maybe two steps away from the SUV and stopped. He's just kinda, like, frozen in place, head down and his shoulders hunched. For a big dude, he looks awful small all of a sudden.

Confused all over again, Mox walks back over. "What's up, man?"

"Uh..." Leakee pats his pockets, quick and jerky. "Nothin', man. Just..." He darts a look at the handful of cars to his right. "Trying to think if I got everything."

"Huh." Mox sidles over a little bit to put himself between Leakee and the cars. He doesn't really know why he does it, other than it feels like the right thing to do. "Hey, you know it is kinda crowded right now. I dunno. Maybe we should come back later. What do you think?"

"I'm out of beer," Leakee mutters at the ground. "You drank my last ones last night. I really want to get some more."

Thinking quick, Mox glances at the store and back. "Well, I mean, I could run in and grab some for you, if you want," he offers. "You could wait in the car."

He swears to God he sees something like relief pass through Leakee's dark eyes when Leakee looks up. "Yeah, why don't you do that. Miller Lite. I usually get a couple twenty-four packs. Cans. Get some pizzas or something, too, while you're in there. Something for dinner. Whatever looks good. I can eat anything. I can come back later for more when it's not so crowded."

 _Crowded_.

The parking lot is maybe a quarter full, if that. Even so, Mox plays along. He doesn't know what else to do. "Sure, yeah, you can do that. Just - hey, thing is, I don't have any money on me, so..."

"Oh." Leakee fumbles a wallet out of his back pocket, and pulls out some wrinkled twenties and tens. "If you need stuff, you can get it now. I'll just, uh. I'll wait out here."

"You do that," Mox tells him. "I'll be quick."

Only after Leakee's made it back into the driver's seat does Mox go into the store.

He doesn't see a single person on his way in or when he grabs himself a shopping cart.

Just his luck he gets one with a noisy wheel, though. The fucking thing bang-bang-bangs like it's got fireworks attached to it when he pushes it into the store.

Fortunately, the store isn't crowded at all. There's a couple little old people buzzing around the fresh fruits and vegetables section, but not more than one person with a cart every other aisle. Only a few people at the checkout lines. Nobody at those self-check machines. A couple of people sweeping up. Couple more straightening things on the shelf.

It's peaceful as hell, actually.

Some people, Mox reasons as he pushes his noisy-ass cart down the frozen foods aisle, just don't like crowds. Mox doesn't, unless he's wrestling in front of them or drinking with them. Coming into a crowded store to shop is like walking into the fifth circle of hell, as far as he's concerned. He gets that. He's known plenty of people who don't like even being around party crowds.

But there's not liking crowds and there's looking at cars in a parking lot like they're going to eat you.

That's something different.

Definitely something up there.

What that is, Mox doesn't have any idea, but it's another piece to add to the Leakee puzzle.

Raises a lot of questions, and Mox mulls them over while he throws enough food for a few days, some toiletries for himself, and more paper plates into the cart. Could the guy really run a hardware store if he didn't like being around people? How did he play football? If he had family, did they know, and if so, why the fuck weren't they doing anything?

Why the fuck would they dump this on him?

It's like trying to snap together pieces without having the benefit of a box to look at, and Mox can't make heads or tails out of any of it.

He doesn't screw around in the store, checking out quickly and making a hurried trip into the liquor store next door for Leakee's beer and a bottle of cheap vodka for himself. Afterward, he nearly runs his noisy-ass shopping car back out into the parking lot, half-worried that Leakee might have just driven away.

But Leakee's right where Mox left him, sitting in the driver's seat with the window rolled down and the radio on. Seems calm enough, so that's something. Relieved, Mox offloads the groceries into the back SUV, not commenting on the way Leakee refuses to make eye contact in the rearview mirror.

Or the way Leakee stares straight ahead when Mox climbs into the passenger seat.

Instead, Mox drops the change - about thirty bucks - onto the console and says, "I got enough for a few days." As soon as he says it, though, he remembers the toxic wasteland that is Leakee's kitchen, and grimaces. "Assuming you got the room for it, anyway."

Leakee starts the SUV. "Fridge is pretty much empty. Should be fine."

"Okay." Mox looks over. "You okay, or...?"

"Fine." Leakee's big hands look like they're trying to strangle the steering wheel to death, his knuckles strained and pale. "Just don't like crowds."

"Yeah, fuck crowds," Mox agrees. "'Specially pushy-ass old people in the store. Thought I was gonna get body-slammed by this little old lady in the dairy aisle. She really wanted into the milk case. I'm like, 'Shit, lady, lemme just get this one thing, and I'll be outta your way.' You think she'd wait? Hell no. She just pushed right in there. She's like eighty 'n not even up to my my chest, but I swear to God she out mean-mugged guys three times her size. Thought the stock boy was gonna come back and find me pinned under her walker."

He's aiming for a smile or something, just anything to cut the tension in the car. Leakee doesn't exactly smile, but he gives Mox a quick capital-L _look_ and says, "You _would_ get into a fight with an old lady."

"Hey!" Mox affects a mock-wounded look. "I didn't start it. I was just tryina grab some milk, and she came barreling right up to me. Old people can be fucking vicious, man."

"Vicious." Leakee snorts. "Maybe you just bring it out in people."

"Oh, I totally do," Mox says without a drop of shame. "There was this one time, me and a bunch of guys were driving to somewhere in Ohio, and..."

For the rest of the trip back to Leakee's place, Mox fills the car with stories of times he'd gotten himself in trouble pushing people's buttons. He keeps things light and moving along, doesn't even mention what happened back at the grocery store. Leakee doesn't really relax and he doesn't another word, but his hands loosen their death grip on the wheel right around the time Mox cracks himself up at how he pissed off another wrestler off enough that that guy actually went car surfing on the highway just to prove he wasn't a chickenshit.

They make it back to Leakee's place just fine, and Mox keeps up the chatter while they carry all the groceries upstairs. He stands outside of Leakee's gross kitchen, trying not to breathe in the smell of stale grease and something that's like a cross between mold and stinky cheese. It's fucking nasty, whatever it is. Probably stick to his lungs like cigarette tar.

The fridge, he notices as Leakee's loading milk and a few other things into it, is completely empty other than like a bottle of mustard and ketchup, and so is the pantry that Leakee shoves all the dry goods into. Every other surface is covered in empty boxes and dirty dishes.

They'd need a fucking crime scene cleaning crew to tackle it. One of those disaster rescue crews. Something.

Or maybe just a gas mask, some heavy rubber gloves, and a dumpster.

A full-body condom.

_Fuck, dude._

Once everything's put away, Leakee retreats into the back bedroom with one of his beer cases. Mox is perched on the arm of the chair, telling Leakee a - in his opinion - truly bitchin' story about about the wrestling match he had this year where he got the other guy so mad the guy ran through a whole pane of glass trying to get at Mox.

"-and you shoulda seen the way the glass just blew..." He trails off when Leakee tucks the case of beer under an arm and walks off down the hall. "Oh. You gonna go take a nap or something? That's cool, dude. Guess I'll just hang here then? Or - yeah, I'll watch TV or something. Don't worry 'bout it."

Leakee just closes the door to his bedroom, leaving a bewildered Mox alone in an empty living room.

"What the fuck just happened?" he asks the room.

It doesn't answer.


	12. Watcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leakee's not having a good day. Mox is just doing the best he can. Another not-so-comfortable chapter.

**XII. Watcher**

Mox pokes his head into the second bedroom with trepidation and held breath.

Given the state of the rest of the apartment, he's a little terrified of what he's gonna find behind that closed door. What he'll smell when he does.

The door creaks open slow and with some resistance, like it hasn't been opened in a while, like the hinges are reluctant to move.

Or like a box has spilled over and fallen in the way.

Boxes.

The same sort of unused, dusty smell that had permeated the storeroom downstairs wafts out at him now. He sneezes it out explosively once, twice - hard enough that he almost drops the whiskey bottle. But it  _is_  just dust. Nothing like the low, wet mildewy smell that permeates the rest of the apartment like some sour cologne.

And the room he steps into isn't that bad: lot of boxes stacked everywhere - along the walls and on the bed, marked with words like 'Clothes' and 'Sales Receipts 2000' and 'Purchase Orders 1999' - and a whole lotta dust. It's a smaller room than the back with, as far as Mox can tell, a smaller bed and a nightstand shoved against the left wall. Dresser somewhere in between the box stacks, covered in almost an inch of dust.

Nobody's been in here for a while.

Getting the dozen or so boxes shifted off the bed is a sneezy affair, the stale air swirling so thick even opening the window doesn't help, not at first. Mox resorts to fishing a shirt out of his duffle and tying it around his lower face.

By the time he's got the bed clear and the plain navy blue comforter in the washer (it's streaked with dirt and something dark and sticky), his sinuses are pounding, and this dull, low anger beats in his chest:  _How the fuck do you live like this?!_ he mentally shouts at Leakee's closed door.

He gets the boxes moved into less-apt-to-topple towers along the wall, and by then the air's better in there. It's a little dim. The only view is of the alley, and most of that is blocked by the bland brick building across the way. But it's better than nothing. It's a room with a bed that actually isn't crawling with bugs.

(Which is another thing Mox finds surprising: he hasn't seen any roaches. He's have figured a place like this would be overrun with them. He'd seen a few worrying cobwebs in his room, but no spiders and nothing crawling around.)

His phone rings just about the time he's about to try out the bed. Sami, according to his caller ID. He considers ignoring it, but decides he feels just masochistic enough to answer it. "Yo."

"Mox?"

"Yeah. 'Sup, Sami?"

"Where are you?" Worried. Uncertain. Things Sami never is.

Frowning, Mox sits on the edge of the bed. "Around. What's up?"

"I just - man, Danny called me."

"Havoc?" Mox's stomach tightens. "And?"

"What's this shit about you maybe having HIV, dude?"

 _Fuck._  Here Mox hadn't even thought about that bullshit in like three hours. "I don't know if I do or not yet," he admits. "Gonna have to get tested over the next, like, six or so months. Won't be able to wrestle or anything, either."

Shocked silence falls over the line. Mox gently twists open the whiskey's cap. Smells the sharp alcohol. Doesn't drink. That wasn't so bad. Ripping off the Band-Aid. A full fifteen or so seconds crawls by. Finally, Sami says, "Holy fuck, man.  _Holy_  fuck. What...? How? How did it...?"

"Oh you mean Havoc didn't run his big fat fucking mouth about that, too?" Bitter. Mox can feel his lip curl.

"He said something about some guy you put in the hospital last night," Sami says. "He thinks the guy, uh, r-"

"Don't," Mox cuts him off. His heart's jittering in his chest, and  _Jesus_ , he doesn't want to hear that word. "Sami, don't. It's fine, all right? I'm fine. The guy  _did_ , but, listen, it was my own stupid fault, y'know? I was so fucking shitfaced I couldn't've pushed a fly off me and - I mean, yeah, it was a couple different times, but I just - I was a fucking idiot. Brought it on myself. But I got him. That guy. He's breathin' through a fucking hose in a hospital, and if he's lucky he just won't wake up 'cuz I'll finish him off. I got him. It's fine. It's fine."

"No it's  _not_  fine, Mox," Sami flares at him. "Me and Chrissy were about to kick you out  _and we didn't know_! We didn't know any of this happened to you, man. What the  _fuck_ , dude? You didn't tell me any of this. And we just... Jesus."

"It's not your problem," Mox tells him. "You and Chrissy, you don't owe me shit. Okay? You don't. It's fine. I got a place to crash for a while and I'm gonna be helping this dude out with his hardware store."

"What dude and what hardware store?"

"That one on 34th. Got a board up over the window right now, but I'm gonna help him get it cleaned up and back open. The guy that owns the place has an apartment above it with a spare room. Bed and everything, so that's where I'm staying."

"Oh." Sami sounds surprised, relieved. "Oh, well shit, that's good."

"It's a start."

"You talk to Zandig or anybody yet?"

"Nope. Just found about all this HIV shit last night and the testing shit this morning, so, like. I'm still processing. Six months."

"Fuck, that's rough, man. I am so fucking sorry." And there it is. The sympathy. "Is there, shit, what can I do, man? Anything?"

"Just keep it to yourself for now, huh? I don't want this gettin' around yet. Sit on Danny if you have to. I don't want him running his goddamn mouth. Otherwise, I'm okay, dude. You-"

All of a sudden, there's a heavy  _thump_  from next door, followed by the sound of something hitting the floor.

Mox shoots out of bed, alarmed, and sets the untouched whiskey down on the dresser. "Hey, listen, I gotta go. I gotta get back to work here, but I'll be in touch, huh?"

"You better, asshole," Sami says. "We're going to Dayton this weekend, but I'm not doing anything next weekend. Come over."

"Will do," Mox says on his way out his door. "Talk to you later, man." He hangs up without waiting for Sami's answer and shove his phone into his hoodie's pocket, and races down to Leakee's door. One curled fist hits the door in a sharp knock. "Lay-ah-key? You okay in there, dude? I heard something fall."

There's no answer.

Fear burns like acid in Mox's throat when he reaches for the doorknob. Visions of coming home as a kid to find his mother passed out in her own puke claw their way into his mind's eye like scenes from a horror movie he's never been able to forget.

That's not exactly what he finds in Leakee's room when he bursts in, but his worry doesn't abate at all.

Leakee's sitting up on the floor, kind of half-slumped against the side of the bed, shirt all rucked up in the back. His eyes are glassy and half-open on a photo album in his lap. The nightstand had fallen over to one side, spilling an alarm clock and a couple pills bottles onto the floor. There are probably ten fresh empty beer cans around him.

The big guy doesn't even turn his head when Mox walks into the room and hunkers down beside him. Or, for that matter, when Mox shakes a meaty shoulder. "Hey. You okay?"

"Huh?'

" _Hey_ ," Mox tries again. "Come on, dude." He snaps a finger under Leakee's nose. "Look at me."

It comes as a huge relief when Leakee blinks a few times and lifts his head. Half-open eyes focus somewhere around Mox's chin. "Huh? Whaddya want?"

"You with me?"

"Said I wanned t'be left 'lone," Leakee mumbles in a beery exhale.

"I heard something fall," Mox explains. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"'m fine."

 _My ass_. Mox gets back up and steps over Leakee long enough to right the nightstand and to put the alarm clock back. Before he heads over to sit down beside Leakee again, he scoops up the two pill bottles and carries them over with him.

"Hey," Leakee protests when he sees the bottles in Mox's hand. He tries to take them. "'S're mine."

"I know," Mox says easily, batting Leakee's sluggish paw out of the way. "Just seein' what they are."

He reads the labels on both, and recognizes the names as heavy-duty anxiety meds - the kind that guys around CZW take recreationally. They drink a bunch of booze with them and get really zoned out, sluggish - just like Leakee is. Mox himself has done it a time or two, and remembers the way he felt like he was cruising about six feet under water before he passed right the hell out.

So the big guy had had some kind of panic or anxiety attack in the parking lot, and he'd taken meds for it - and capped it off with a bunch of beer.

 _Okay_.  _All right_.

Mox rattles the bottles, which are both close to halfway full. "How many of what did you take?" he asks.

Leakee blinks off into space a few times and then mumbles, "Three. Only s'posed t'take two, but wasn't helping."

"But three and a shitload of beers is, huh?" Mox says. He remembers seeing a couple of the guys - all smaller than Leakee - drown four or five with a whole bunch of whiskey and they were fine, but even so, he's not unconcerned here. "That help?"

A slow nod. "Better."

"Did you fall out of bed? Why are you on the floor?"

"Somethin' caught m'foot."

"Were you going to the bathroom or what?"

"...yeah?"

"Wanna do that and get back in bed? Probably more comfy than the floor. Here." Mox plucks the photo album off Leakee's lap, sets it aside, and finds the offending blanket that's still curled around Leakee's ankle like a flat gray snake. "Can you get up?"

"Mm."

Between the two of them they get Leakee up onto his feet, and headed off into the bathroom. Guy wobbles like a drunk on a pitching ship the whole way, but he makes it. Mox shuts the door behind him, and turns to kick the beer cans out of the way and get the bedding at least back on the bed, keeping an ear out for any thumps or stumbles. When he doesn't hear anything but heavy pissing, he darts back into his room for a handful of things, and brings it all into Leakee's room.

Leakee stumbles out of the bathroom looking just totally groggy and out of it, and Mox is there in a flash to make sure Leakee gets back to bed in one piece. Which he does. It's no big deal. Leakee's unsteady, but not quite to the point where he's falling over, and manages to get laid down on his own without much trouble.

Once he's situated, Mox heads over to the pile of stuff he set down on the floor, and sits down on the pile of sheets and the pillow he'd dragged off the other bed. He'd brought his old Walkman and a dog-eared novel he'd been working his way through for about a month, along with the whiskey he knows now he's probably not going to drink yet - not yet.

Just in case.

* * *

Things fall quiet for a good couple hours.

Mox reads his book - a Stephen King novel - and keeps an ear on the deep, even sound of Leakee's breathing.

Thinks back to all the times he did this as a kid, sat on the floor of his mother's bedroom after she'd staggered in and passed out, and listened to her breathe. He remembers being terrified, in the way little kids are, of not hearing her breathing anymore, of all the hitches and gasps between breaths, remembers flinching sometimes when she'd snore. Because even then he knew she was doing Bad Things to herself. As he got older and understood just what those Bad Things were, the fear got replaced with a kind of helpless anger - especially on nights where he was the one who'd have to pick her up and put her to bed - but even then, he still watched.

Just in case.

Somebody had to.

Fuck knew the good-for-nothing pieces of shit boyfriends she dragged home never did it, and as mad as he got at her, he didn't want her to actually die.

Still doesn't.

 _Should probably call her again,_ he thinks, rubbing his eyes like an overtired child.

It startles him when he hears the bed shift and sees Leakee suddenly looking down at him from the foot of the bed. Big guy had wormed his way down there and is curled up on his side, eyes open a glassy crack. "What's up?" Mox asks him.

"What're you doin in here?" a slurry mumble.

"Just chillin'," Mox shrugs. "Need somethin'?"

"Thirsty."

"Lemme get you some water," Mox says, climbing to his feet.

"Beer," Leakee says.

"You've had enough beer for right now, dude." Mox honest-to-Christ wants to laugh at himself. That's a sentence he didn't think he'd ever say in his life, like a real adult and everything. He darts down the hall, takes a deep breath to hold, and races into the disgusting kitchen just as fast as he can for a couple bottles of the water he'd grabbed at the store today.

By the time he's made it back to Leakee's bedroom, Leakee's sitting up hunched over on the end of his bed. Mox taps the back of his hand with a cracked-open water bottle, and then, as soon as Leakee takes it, retreats to the nest of sheets on the floor.

Leakee takes several slow drinks, while Mox sips his own water. It's not very cold, but that's fine.

For one of the few times in his life, he has no idea what to say, so he chooses not to say anything. The silence spiderwebs between them, grows thick like the dust, and settles. Mox studies the red pillowcase marks on Leakee's cheek, the way they merge with the goatee and disappear down by Leakee's chin. And gets studied back in return by those half-open, glassy dark eyes.

 _Your move_ , Mox thinks, silently willing Leakee to say something.  _C'mon. Open the pod bay doors, Leakee_.

But Leakee doesn't say anything.

_I'm sorry, Moxley. I'm afraid can't do that._

Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Mox blinks first, and reaches for his book.

Except:

"Prolly think 'm pathetic, huh?" Slow. Slushy. Soft. Like Leakee's talking with a mouthful of marbles at low volume. "All this shit 'n I can't even go to the damn store."

Mox lowers the book back to his lap. "Nope."

"No?"

"You just - you got some problems, is all. Nothing pathetic about it. Fuck, dude, what does that make me? I'm here mooching off you when I broke into your store two weeks ago. 'Cuz i got nowhere else to go. You're not the pathetic one in this room, believe me? You got, what, anxiety issues and shit? Like panic attacks or whatever?"

Such a long time goes by where Leakee just sits there staring off at nothing that Mox doesn't even know if anything he'd said penetrated or if an answer's coming. But eventually one does in the form of a nod, and, "Said it was depression and anxiety."

"Who said?"

Leakee takes another long drink. Gives himself a little shake. "Doctor."

"You saw a doctor?"

Well,  _duh_. He'd have had to to get his pills.

But if Leakee noticed the stupidity of the question, it doesn't show. "Yeah," he says. "After."

"After what?"

"Parking lot."

Frowning, Mox leans forward. "What do you mean? Like another one of those, uh, like, panic attack things, or...? You had one of those, or what?"

It takes a while for Leakee to answer again. The water bottle crackles and crinkles as he squeezes it, cheap plastic folding and buckling under that meaty paw. "Jumped. Got jumped. Got hit from behind. Broad daylight. Took m'uncle's watch. His car. My money. Left me there knocked out in the parking lot. Cops never found 'em."

"Holy shit, man," Mox says. "That's terrible. Wow. Fuck. I'm sorry that happened to you."

At that, Leakee actually grunts a little laugh. "Says th'guy broke into m'store."

"I'm gonna help you fix it," Mox says, and if he hadn't meant it before, he does now. Guilt creeps up on him and snags him its jaws.  _Fuck_ , what an asshole he was. "I'll help you fix it, man." He shifts again and gestures at the wreck of an apartment around them. "So all this, did it start with that, then?"

"No."

"Before that?"

Apparently, Leakee's said all he means to, because he finishes off the water and throws the crumpled bottle onto the floor. Then he crawls backward onto the bed and lies down. "You c'n go 'way. 'M fine."

"Nah, I'll hang here," Mox says, because stubborn is Jon Moxley's native language, and there's nobody who speaks it better. "You just go back to sleep or whatever you wanna do. If you want anything to eat or anything, or whatever, lemme know. I'll get it for you."

"I don't wanna talk."

"Hey, I'm just gonna read my book. You don't gotta entertain me. It's fine. Just sleep."

He goes back to at least pretending to read his book, while Leakee shifts and shuffles around on the bed, gets comfortable, and zonks back out. He's probably gonna be fine, and there's probably no need for Mox to sit here anymore, but somehow he can't bring himself leave.

Never could before, either.

Just in case.

 _Just in case_.


End file.
